


I'll Shake Hands With You In Hell

by twisting_vine_x



Category: Sherlock (TV), Superlock - Fandom, Supernatural
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, Implied Torture, M/M, Suicidal Thoughts, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-19
Updated: 2012-06-19
Packaged: 2017-11-08 02:16:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 54,948
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/438037
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/twisting_vine_x/pseuds/twisting_vine_x
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A/N: Supernatural/Sherlock crossover (post-Reichenbach; goes AU after SPN 7.19).</p><p>- - -</p><p>Summary: Less than two months after what the press have deemed ‘The Reichenbach Suicide’, John Watson makes a deal that condemns his soul to Hell for eternity. At the same time, Team Free Will – still struggling to send the leviathans back to Purgatory – stumbles upon a clue that leads them across the ocean, and straight into the path of two men who are desperately seeking a way to prevent Hell from collecting its due.</p><p>The result – an intersection of these two separate worlds, and the teaming up of some unlikely allies – is the story of how John Watson’s life collides with the world of demons and monsters, and of how he and Sherlock are given one final chance to make things right between them, even as a dangerous web begins to tighten its hold around London, and John’s clock starts to steadily tick down the days to his last night on Earth.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

That afternoon, after he leaves the cemetery, John Watson doesn’t go back to Baker Street. Instead, he finds himself wandering the dreary streets of London, the air growing chill around him as the sun goes down over the city, until he ends up standing at Savoy Pier, staring down into the churning water as waves splash up against the dock.

He thinks, briefly, of his gun, in his desk drawer at Baker Street. Thinks of Sherlock’s gun, the way it had punched holes in the wall. Thinks of how much easier it would be, that way, if not for the fact that he simply cannot go back to their empty apartment. Going back would quite possibly kill him in ways that no weapon could.

Instead, John stares down at the cold water, feeling the world slowly draw itself tighter around him, his mind caving in as it replays, over and over, the sight of Sherlock jumping from the hospital roof. The blood that had stained the sidewalk, the hand that had been outstretched, the way Sherlock’s eyes had been open and unseeing, deprived of their spark for the first time since John had met him.

He thinks of all this, cycles through the memories, and he waits for the tears. When they don’t come, he distantly ponders on what he knows about grieving. This numbness, perhaps, is almost worst than tears, and he finds himself taking a step closer to the water, staring down at the waves and wondering if what he’s seeing in front of him is the freedom of oblivion.

“Hey, man, got a light?”

The words take a long moment to process, seeming to come from somewhere far away, and John eventually finds himself blinking at the man standing beside him, an unlit cigarette hanging from between his fingertips. His clothes are rags, his beard a mess of dirt on his face, and when John distantly thinks homeless, the reminder of Sherlock is enough to draw a breath from his lungs like a punch.

“No, I – I don’t. Sorry.”

“S’alright.”

And then the guy simply sits down beside him, dangles his feet over the water, and starts to quietly hum to himself. John stares at him for a moment, not quite processing the image, until it becomes apparent that the man isn’t going to move, and then John finds himself turning away and walking up the pier. There’d be no point in jumping in the river now, with someone around to pull him out.

\- - -

“John. You have got to get outside, get some air –”

John brushes off the words with a careless wave, his fingers tightening around the glass in his hand. Harry, of all people, had offered him a roof over his head, and John had taken it, moving through the motions on autopilot. It was the first time in years that he hadn’t ragged on her about her drinking. Instead, he had simply picked up the bottle himself, and the two of them had spent the last three weeks in a numbed state that did little to kill the pain that John could feel slowly beginning to creep across his body, as the reality of Sherlock’s death began to actually sink it.

_Keep your eyes fixed on me._

“Another glass, Harry, if you please.”

And for once, she doesn’t argue. Instead, she simply gets the bottle and sits down beside him, refilling his glass and picking up her own, letting silence fall between them as they both sip their drinks, the closest thing they’ve come to an understanding in years.

\- - -

In the end, it takes John nearly a month before he’s able to visit Mycroft. They hadn’t exchanged a single word at the funeral, and though there had been a number of cars sent to pick him up, John had always turned and walked in the other direction. He didn’t trust himself to not twist Mycroft’s head clean off his neck if they were put in the same room.

Then, twenty-seven days after Sherlock’s death, when a car pulls up in front of Harry’s apartment, John methodically gets to his feet, downs most of the bottle sitting in front of him, and then walks down the stairs. Anthea opens the door for him, her eyes filled with far too much pity for John to deal with, and then he sits silently through the car ride until he ends up at Mycroft’s, keeping his silence until they’re finally in the same room together.

“John.”

The image of Mycroft is somewhat blurred around the edges – alcohol, John thinks distantly, and exhaustion – but he’s clear enough that John can see the way Mycroft’s normally pristine suit is rumpled. The circles under his eyes that had never been there before, the utter lack of emotion in his voice, and John distantly thinks that he should feel sorry for Mycroft, but he really just doesn’t have it in him.

“You pleased with yourself?”

“John –”

And then Mycroft just stops, closing his eyes as the seconds tick past. When he finally opens them again, John fancies he can actually see the way Mycroft is trying to draw his composure around him like a cloak, aiming for the haughty disdain that normally flows off him in waves.

“I made a mistake.”

“You ruined your brother’s life.”

“Moriarty –”

“Would have had nothing to go on if you hadn’t blabbed!”

John can distantly hear himself, knows that he had promised himself that he wouldn’t do this, that he had planned to keep it together when he and Mycroft were finally in the same room – but the words falling from his own mouth seem unreal, the sound of his voice coming to him through a fog, and he distantly realizes that he’s shaking as he fights the urge to take a swing.

“I didn’t know. John, how could I –”

“I can’t do this.”

It’s too soon. He’d known it was too soon, but he had come anyway, and if he stays, he’s going to do something that could get him thrown in prison. Turning to go, and swaying a little as the alcohol makes itself known, he distantly hears Mycroft murmur an apology behind him, but it’s not enough to stop him from walking out the door, bypassing Mycroft’s car entirely and stumbling down the road on his own.

\- - - 

When John wakes up the next morning, he barely manages to roll onto his side before he’s sick, vomiting up his insides into the Thames and then closing his eyes as he falls back down against the cold pavement. He can remember portions of the night before, remembers leaving Mycroft’s, remembers finding a liquor store and then coming to sit under this bridge – which would explain why he never made it back to Harry’s.

Sherlock, he thinks distantly, would probably be ashamed of him.

The thought has barely passed his mind before he realizes that he’s lying underneath something, and he sits up so abruptly it sends a new spike of pain through his temples. When he finally manages to crack his eyes open, it’s to the sight of an unfamiliar coat draped across his body, grungy and smelly but warm enough that John appreciates it nevertheless, even if he has no idea how it go there.

“Morning.”

John nearly concusses himself with the speed which with he spins around, suddenly hating that he’s sitting on his ass on the cold concrete and blinking through the hangover haze. There’s a woman standing on the sidewalk not ten feet away from him, and he just barely manages to stumble to his feet before she’s moved to stand in front of him, wiping a smear of dirt from her hand.

“You looked cold. My friends had a fire. Figured I could give this up for the night, but now I need it back.”

_Homeless._

John distantly wonders if the universe is attempting to break his heart all over again – as though everything in his life has to remind him of Sherlock. As if everything didn’t do that already.

Breathing through a surge of nausea, John leans down to pick the coat off the ground, and hands it to her. He distantly thinks there’s something like gratitude sweeping along his body, but the sensation is dimmed, as though coming to him from far away.

“Thanks.”

She nods, stares at him, and then walks away again, pulling the coat up around her body. John watches her leave, and then lets his eyes slide closed for a moment, trying to breathe through the pain that seems to have become part of his every waking moment. 

\- - -

It’s forty-eight days after Sherlock’s death when John finally makes himself go back to Baker Street. Mrs. Hudson had called again, her voice wavering as she’d asked whether John had simply wanted all the contents of their apartment put into a storage unit, and when John had pictured Sherlock’s entire life sitting in the darkness of some impersonal room, he had somehow found the strength to come deal with things on his own.

Or, at least, he thought he had.

The minute John looks up at their apartment, the only home John has ever really known, his whole body seems to seize up, and he turns and walks away as quickly as he’d came. He makes it back to Harry’s and calls Mrs. Hudson, asking her to remove the guns from the apartment, and telling her that he’ll pay to have everything else boxed up and emptied, and then he curls up in his bed, his body wracked with tremors he doesn’t have a chance of controlling.

\- - -

Fifty-three days after Sherlock’s death, the apartment at Baker Street has still not been touched, and John is alone at Harry’s when a knock comes on the door. By the time he eventually pulls himself out of bed, there’s nobody there, and John finds himself bending down to pick up a small brown box, which has some kind of inscription etched into the top. 

It’s only when he gets back to his room and opens it that John realizes how much trouble he’s in. Because the instructions in the box are insane – actually, certifiably insane – and John is still reading them.

_You want Sherlock back?_

_Fill this box with yarrow blossoms, graveyard dirt, and the bone of a black cat. Once you’ve done that, add your photo to the contents of this box, bury it in the middle of a crossroads, and wait._

He reaches for the bottle and takes a deep swig. If he’s going to sit here read over this kind of insanity, then he’d like to have some kind of excuse.

\- - -

Three days later – and fifty-six days after Sherlock’s death – the insane instructions in the box are firmly forgotten, and John is standing on the roof that Sherlock had jumped from.

The numbness of the first few weeks is gone. In its place is an all-encompassing rage that threatens to burn him up from the inside out, along with a well of grief that seems to seep right into his very soul. As he had limped up the stairs, John had found himself almost gasping for air, picturing Sherlock walking up this very staircase, and wondering if he had known that he was walking to his death.

“I’m sorry, Sherlock.”

He’s sober for the first time in weeks, but everything still feels fuzzy, blurred around the edges. Far below him he can see the same spread of pavement Sherlock had landed on, and he finds himself suddenly loathing himself for giving up like this, but the entire goddamn world seems to scrape against him like sandpaper over an open wound, and nothing could possibly hurt as much as breathing does right now.

“It’s never worth it, you know.”

John jumps so badly he nearly topples off the edge of the building, swaying forward for a second before he stumbles backwards off the ledge, his mind struggling to catch up as he turns to find a woman staring at him. There’s the tiniest hint of a smile tugging at her lips, her hands folding almost demurely at the front of her simple black dress, but something still seems off about her, and when she takes a step towards John, John feels himself back up until his knees hit the ledge again.

“I – who are you?”

“A friend.”

“I don’t –”

“Someone to tell you that if you’re going to go to Hell, you might as well do it right.”

Her words don’t seem to process correctly, and John can feel his mind still struggling to catch up, wrenched away from the promise of oblivion, and suddenly made to deal with this stranger.

“I –”

“There’s no escape for you that way, John Watson. When you hit that pavement, you’ll just keep on going down, down, down.”

Despite the ludicrous words, despite the impossibility of what this woman is insinuating, John feels a tendril of dread creep down his spine, sending a shiver across his entire body. Something of what he’s feeling must show up on his face, because the woman’s lips twitch a little bit higher, and then –

And then her eyes turn black.

John instinctively reaches for a gun that isn’t there, before he’s tripping backwards and pressing himself as close as he can to the ledge behind him, staring at the woman as the world suddenly ceases to make sense around him. He briefly wonders if he’s dreaming, but the entire scene around him is painted with a vividness that John doesn’t think his mind could have created.

“Follow my instructions, John Watson. Go to a crossroad, and do as –”

“John!”

The banging sound of the roof door slamming open cuts through the woman’s words, and then Molly is standing there, her eyes wide as she takes in the scene in front of her. When the strange woman cuts a slow smirk in Molly’s direction, John can actually watch the colour drain from Molly’s expression.

“Well, Molly Hooper. We meet again.”

Molly stumbles backwards, not taking her eyes from the woman, and John finds himself trying to breathe through the impossibility of this woman’s eyes flashing back to normal as she returns her gaze to John.

“Remember, John. I can help you.”

And then, without another word, she turns and slowly walks to the staircase. John watches as Molly visibly flinches away as the woman walks past her, and then it’s just John and Molly on the roof, and John suddenly realizes that he’s shaking, adrenaline screaming across every inch of his veins.

“I – jesus.”

And that’s where he stops, letting himself sink into a crouch against the ledge of the building, and closing his eyes as Molly comes to stand in front of him, wiping a line of tears from her face.

“Come on, John. Let’s – let’s get off this roof.”

Too exhausted to argue, John lets himself be pulled to his feet, distantly wondering if maybe he’s finally lost his mind for good.

\- - - 

“Who was that?”

Molly says nothing, stirring her cup of tea in front of her, and doing her best to not look at him. John briefly glances around her flat, and then reaches for his own tea, trying to forget the image of that woman’s eyes flashing back.

“Come on, Molly. You knew her –”

“You wouldn’t believe me.”

“You won’t know that until you try.”

“I can’t.”

Molly’s almost twitching in her seat, and John bites down on his lip for a second as he takes in the dark smudges under her eyes, the way her hair is falling limp against her face. He has a moment of wanting to try to comfort her, but he has no idea what to even say. 

“John, you must promise me something.”

“If you would just –”

“Whatever that woman asks of you – don’t do it. Please.”

“Molly –”

“I need you to just trust me on this one, okay?”

John has the distant and somewhat hysterical thought that nothing seems to make sense in this new world, this new existence in which Sherlock no longer exists, and he calmly sets his tea in its saucer as he gets to his feet again, pulling his coat around him.

“John –”

“Thank you for the tea.”

And then he walks out the door. He has an animal shelter to visit.

\- - -

“You… want to know whether we’ve euthanized a black cat today?”

John wonders for a moment what he must look like – unshaven and exhausted, showing up out of nowhere and requesting a dead feline – and he makes a conscious effort to smile, dimly noticing that the muscles seem to be sore from disuse.

“I’m a film-maker. Aspiring, anyway. Horror, gore – you know, that kind of thing.”

The receptionist is still staring at him as though he’s suddenly sprouted several extra heads, and John would aim to turn his smile into flirty, but he knows that in his current state it would only come across as creepy.

“I’ll… check with my boss.”

John only has to wait a few minutes before another woman walks out from the back room, carrying a garbage bag and smiling at him. John has just a moment to think that something feels off in her smile before the woman is coming around the corner, putting a hand on his arm and raising the bag with the other one.

“Your lucky day. Shall we take Mittens here out to your car?”

“I – I took a cab.”

John fights the urge to pull away as she quirks another smile at him and leads him out of the building, her hand pressed just a little too tight around his elbow. It’s only when they get out to the sidewalk that she turns to face him, her eyes suddenly flashing black, and John pulls away so quickly he almost stumbles. 

“You –”

“Did you really think you could just walk into a shelter and get a dead cat?”

John swallows hard against the nausea that’s threatening to come up through his throat. The woman waves the bag in front of him, almost casually, and curls her lips into another smile.

“Come on, John. I did you a favour. Got the messy bit over with, so you wouldn’t have to.”

The eyes slide back to their normal colour, and John makes a noise that sounds hurt when she tosses the bag at him, closing his own eyes at the feeling of a still warm body underneath all that plastic.

“You’re – you –”

“A monster? Close, but not quite there.”

There’s the press of a warm hand curled around his chin, and John feels himself flinch almost violently, pulling a sound of soft laughter from her.

“You’re rather adorable, John Watson. Take good care of Mittens here, mmmhm?”

John presses his lips firmly together, keeping his eyes closed until he hears the door to the animal shelter slam shut, and then he turns and crosses the sidewalk, setting the plastic bag down on the pavement and throwing up into the trash can in front of him.

\- - - 

After the disaster at the animal shelter, the yarrow blossoms are relatively easy to acquire from a local flower store, and as soon as the sun is down John takes a cab to the cemetery, standing in front of Sherlock’s grave with the woman’s wooden box in one hand, and the garbage bag in the other.

“Here’s me trying for that one last miracle, Sherlock.”

The words seem loud in the darkness around him, and John takes a moment to simply breathe before he walks around to the back of Sherlock’s tombstone, kneeling down on the cold grass and pulling the cat out of the bag. The press of soft fur against his skin is like a burn, and John presses his lips firmly together as he pulls out his knife and methodically cuts off one of the back legs, scraping away the skin and fur until there’s nothing but bone left.

Then, trying to not think about what he’s doing, John uses his hands to dig into the dirt behind Sherlock’s grave, until there’s a hole big enough to fit the cat. Once the tiny body is completely covered with dirt, John carefully pats it down, takes a moment to lean his head against Sherlock’s tombstone, and then gathers up a handful of dirt as he opens the tiny wooden box.

Graveyard dirt, the bone of a black cat, and yarrow blossoms. Wiping his bloody hands on the grass, John drops the items into the box, adds a photo of himself from his wallet, and then gets back to his feet.

“I honestly have no idea what I’m doing, Sherlock. But I have to try.”

There’s no response from the cold tombstone under his hand, and John holds on tighter to the wooden box as walks back across the cemetery. He places the plastic bag in a garbage can, finds a dirty puddle to wash his bloody hands in, and then returns to the main road, the chill wind whipping through him as he raises his hand to hail a taxi.

\- - -

He ends up outside of London, at the deserted field where Sherlock had solved the mystery of the backfiring car, just as the darkening skies above him start to churn out clouds that look like something out of a horror movie. He gets the driver to deposit him on the side of the road – ignoring the confused look he gets in response to his request – and then walks down the dirt road in silence, tightening his fingers around the wooden box, and wondering how far ahead the next intersecting road is.

As he walks, he does his best to not think of all the reasons for why this is probably the most horrible idea he has ever had. But if there’s a chance – even the slightest opportunity that he can get Sherlock back – then it doesn’t matter what the cost is. John has already failed Sherlock once – had left him the moment Sherlock needed him the most – and it’s not about to happen again. It’s never going to happen again. And the idea of leaving Sherlock to rot in a wooden box – leaving him to lie cold and silent, when there’s even a chance of having him alive and brilliant again – is simply not to be borne.

When he eventually comes to the crossroad, John takes a long moment to sweep his across his surroundings, trying to see anything that would give away what exactly is about to happen. Mrs. Hudson had come to Harry’s earlier to give him his gun – despite her obvious reluctance to do so – and the cool weight of metal against his hip is calming, even if he doesn’t believe that the weapon would have any affect against the woman he met earlier. Fighting the nervous urge to rest his hand against it, John takes a steady breath, focuses on the memory of Sherlock’s broken body, and slowly walks into the center of the crossroad.

It takes him less than a minute to bury the box. When it’s done, and the dirt has been packed over it again, John slowly climbs to his feet and takes another deep breath, letting his hands hang loosely at his sides as he scans the area around him and waits for something that he doesn’t think he could ever be ready for.

“Well, aren’t you just adorable.”

John has spun around before the voice even finishes talking, and then he’s making himself breathe deep and steady as he stares at the man in front of him. The man’s appearance is completely unassuming – a few inches taller than John, pressed suit, dark hair and brown eyes – but John knows that there’s nothing good about this entire situation, and it takes everything John has to not take a step backwards.

“Who are you?”

“Oh, honey. Didn’t my colleague tell you why you’re here?”

“Your –”

“She had such fun snapping poor little Mittens’ neck.”

There’s a slight curve to the man’s lips, and John feels himself move backwards despite himself, even as he distantly realizes how pointless it is to try to put some more space in between himself and this man. As if on cue, the wind starts to pick up around them, a barely discernible rumble of thunder in the distance, and the man’s lips curve even further as he raises his eyes to the dark skies above them.

“Seems that nature herself is just as angry as you, John. That’s why you’re here, after all.”

“And what exactly am I here for?”

“You haven’t figured it out yet?”

“I wouldn’t be asking if –”

“Surely you’ve heard stories of the crossroads, John. What is that human phrase – making a deal with the Devil?” 

Everything inside John seems to go cold, a wave of sensation that spreads across his entire body, and he can feel himself begin to shake – because as ludicrous as the smirked-out words are, as impossible as this entire situation is, that woman’s eyes had been pitch black, and this is actually happening.

“And I might not be the Devil – he’s all tightly locked up again, thanks to a couple of Hell’s problem children – but you can still make a deal with me. That’s what I’m here for. And if you do this, then, well – you get your lover boy back.”

A drop of rain stings John’s cheek just as the man’s mouth snaps out a full-on grin, his eyes flashing a deep red colour, and then John is closing his own eyes and taking another step backwards, the magnitude of everything suddenly hitting him. When a hand curls around his chin – he hadn’t even heard the man move – it takes everything John has to not recoil backwards, and it’s only the thought of Sherlock’s bloodied body that keeps John’s feet firmly planted where they are. 

“So you are –”

“A demon. A crossroads demon, specifically. And if you’ll make a deal with me, then dear Sherlock will be back in your life before sunrise.”

“And what exactly does this deal entail?”

John still hasn’t opened his eyes, still hasn’t pulled away from the grip the demon has around his chin, and he can’t quite stop a flinch when the demon leans in closer, a nauseating brush of warm lips as the demon’s mouth breathes out the words against John’s ear.

“Your soul, John Watson. I need your soul.”

John doesn’t even recognize the noise that comes from his own mouth, a hurt, punched-out noise that slips free from somewhere deep inside him, and then he’s pressing his lips firmly together as the demon’s mouth slides from his ear to his cheek, a horrible drag of damp sensation that seems to ricochet across John’s entire body.

“I’ll give you an entire year with the man you love. You’re not going to get a better deal from anyone else. 365 days from now, your clock runs out, and you come join me in Hell.”

The words get all tangled up inside John, mixed with memories of Sherlock’s shattered body, and he barely bites down a surge of nausea, his eyes still firmly closed so as to avoid looking at the creature standing in front of him.

“Sherlock wouldn’t want me to do this.”

He doesn’t know why he says it, knows that the demon isn’t going to care – and then there’s a low laugh from the creature in front of him, a sound of dark amusement that somehow feels more dangerous than even the fingers that are curled tight around his chin, and John can’t stop a full-body shudder.

“Oh, darling. What makes you think that Sherlock went to Heaven when he died?”

The entire world seems to wash white around him, fading in and out of focus as John opens his eyes and tries to simply breathe, and then the demon is stepping back with a final drag of his lips against John’s cheek, his eyes still burning dark red and his mouth curled into a terrifying grin.

“Sherlock wasn’t exactly a good man, John. For all you know, he could be burning in the Pit right now. You might be doing him a favour.”

“Is – is he –”

“I can’t be giving away all my secrets, now can I?” 

Fighting the desperate urge to break his first against the demon’s nose, everything inside him aching with a kind of pain he’s never experienced before, John distantly realizes that he has never felt this helpless in his entire life.

“So, is that a yes, then, Johnny boy?”

John’s mind flashes forward to a world without Sherlock, imagines Sherlock buried deeper in the ground than the literal placement of his coffin, and it’s like a vice tightens around his lungs, narrowing the world down to the realization that life without Sherlock will never be anything but going through the motions, until the day that John finally gives up and goes to join Sherlock in Hell.

“Yes.”

His voice is a rasp, a barely-there sound, and the demon flashes a grin at him.

“Seal it with a kiss, sweetheart.”

John can’t seem to make his legs move, but the demon is already coming to him, curling a hand around his cheek with one hand, and drawing his fingers across John’s lips with the other. John barely has time to breathe through the wave of nausea before there are warm lips pressed to the very corner of his mouth, and the demon is snagging his fingers through the short cut of John’s hair.

“Come on, John. If you want your boy back, you’ve gotta kiss me.”

John has the distant thought that this should have been Sherlock’s – this first ever touch of another man’s mouth against John’s own – and then the demon bites out an impatient sound, moving as if to step back, and John nearly stumbles in his haste to press their mouths together. There’s a scrape of stubble, a damp flick of tongue against his lips, and then there’s a hand cradled tight around the back of his head, holding him in place as the demon presses up against him and kisses him with such intensity it makes John’s lips hurt.

Then, the demon breaks away with a final slide of his tongue, and John quickly pulls himself backward, realizing he’s shaking a bit, nausea making a home in the base of his stomach. The demon is smiling at him, an expression so dark is almost hurts to look at it, and then John flinches as a raindrop pings off his cheek, a cold sting against the warm flush of his skin.

“Look for me in a year from now, John Watson. We’re going to have such delicious fun together, you and I.”

John closes his eyes and concentrates on simply breathing, unable to look at the smile on the demon’s face, and when he finally opens his eyes again, he’s completely deserted in the center of the crossroads. His legs go out from under him without any kind of warning, and he lets himself sink down into the dirt, letting his head hang forward as he presses his hands against the ground and concentrates on simply breathing, barely able to feel the way the rain has truly begun to fall, slamming down against his back and pushing him even further towards the ground.

He’s actually done it. He’s bargained his very soul, and condemned himself to Hell.

Squeezing his eyes tightly shut and digging his fingers into the dirt, John does his best to not feel anything at all, focusing instead on the coldness of the rain, the dampness of the ground underneath his hands. He feels fragile, turned inside out, and he knows he should get up, should find somewhere safer than the middle of the road during a rainstorm, but his limbs can’t seem to move.

_Look for me in a year from now, John Watson. We’re going to have such delicious fun together, you and I._

John isn’t sure how much time passes, but he barely hears the car until it’s almost on top of him, the lights cutting through the rain and shocking him out of his numbness, and some last ditch animal instinct makes him throw himself to the side, landing hard in the gravel but hopefully out of range of the tires – but the car isn’t moving any more, pulled to a stop just slightly down the road from him, and John does his best to struggle back to his knees as he blinks at the figure coming through the rain and the darkness towards him.

Then –

_“John –”_

John struggles to his knees in earnest, the voice cutting through the rain, and then Sherlock is there, pressed up against him, his fingers in John’s hair and his face pressed against John’s. John can hear himself making some kind of hurt noise, and then he’s wrapping his arms around Sherlock and holding on tight, pressing his face into the safety of Sherlock’s neck and doing his best to breathe, everything inside him seeming to slot back into its rightfully place.

“Sherlock,” he hears himself murmur, feeling his entire body begin to shake, soaked through and adrenaline shocked, and then Sherlock is pulling back to stare at him, and John can only stare back as Sherlock’s eyes slide across every inch of him, his fingers still tangled in John’s hair, and his eyes wide and bright in the darkness and the rain.

“John,” and John has never heard Sherlock sound like that before, his voice cracked, fragile, and utterly broken, “John, _what did you do.”_

“I –” And his own voice sounds just as broken, shaky around the edges, as he presses a hand against Sherlock’s damp cheek, distantly wondering how much is tears, and how much is rain, “It was my decision – I got you back –”

_“I was never gone.”_

And if Sherlock had sounded wrecked before, it’s nothing to the terror in those words. The meaning behind them take a second to process, and then John feels his entire body go numb, his limbs and his lungs beginning to seize all around him.

“But – I don’t –”

“I wasn’t dead. They lied to you. You’ve been tricked. You –” And then, suddenly, Sherlock is on his feet again, his coat spinning around him as he yells out a curse into the rain, his hands raised up into the air. “You can’t do this! I made a deal to protect him, you can’t –”

It’s too much, all of a sudden, everything crashing down on him at the same time, and John doesn’t even realize he’s about to pass out until he’s hitting the dirt, the world slowly dimming to darkness around him.

\- - -

When John begins to wake up, blearily taking in the sight of his Baker Street bedroom walls, the world around him is hazy, and it takes him several seconds before the memories sink in – and then he’s bolting upright, his skin suddenly pulled too tight across his entire body. 

“Sherlock?”

He’s barely gotten the word out before he realizes that Sherlock is seated at the end of the bed, his legs crossed in front of him, and his skin utterly devoid of colour. The sight of him is like being punched in the chest, and John is crawling up onto his knees before he even processes moving.

“Sherlock –”

Sherlock slides towards him before John can reach him, grabbing on tight to his elbows and holding him away from his body, staring into John’s face as though he can see straight down to his soul. John goes perfectly still as he stares back, his gaze sliding from Sherlock’s eyes to his lips to his cheekbones to his nose and then back to his eyes again, covering every beautiful inch of him, until John finds himself trying to pull free to touch him, and then Sherlock is shaking his head and tightening his grip almost painfully on John’s elbows, holding him perfectly still.

“Why? Why would you do that?”

“You were dead,” John chokes out, nearly nauseated from the tightness in his throat that’s threatening to choke him. “I got you back –”

“Shut up, John.”

Sherlock’s voice sounds absolutely raw, and John swallows hard and ducks his head, something in Sherlock’s eyes a little too much to meet head on. There’s a long moment of silence, then, the only contact between them Sherlock’s fingers on his arms, and though the awareness of Hell is lurking at the back of his mind, John firmly shoves the idea away, concentrating with all his power on the fact that Sherlock is alive, and everything else is secondary to that.

“I couldn’t keep doing this alone.”

The words slide out without his consent, and then Sherlock is off the bed and staring at John, his arms wrapped around his own body. John does his best to stare back, but the paleness of Sherlock’s skin is starting to get to him, and the way that Sherlock is staring at him – as though he doesn’t know whether to hug him or hit him – is making John’s stomach turn over.

“You sold your soul for me. John, do you even understand what that means?”

“Can I please have five minutes to enjoy the fact that you’re alive?”

“I wasn’t dead!”

“Well, how was I supposed to know that? Your funeral seemed pretty final to me!”

John thinks, distantly, that this ridiculous – that they’ve been in the room together for two minutes, and they’re already yelling at each other – but then Sherlock is turning away from him, facing the bedroom wall, with his arms still wrapped around himself and his body visibly shaking.

“Everything I did was to protect you. And it still wasn’t enough.”

“Sherlock –”

“I still couldn’t save you.”

The silence that falls seems to fill up every tiny corner of the room, and John suddenly and desperately needs to touch, needs a tangible connection to know that this is real, and he’s sliding off the bed onto knees so weak they almost give out from under him, stepping forward to press a hand against Sherlock’s shoulder. When Sherlock goes still against his fingers, John swallows hard and gently presses his forehead into the space between Sherlock’s shoulders, closing his eyes against his blurring vision, and every part of him aching to wrap his arms around Sherlock.

“You need to tell me what happened, alright? And then we’ll deal with what I’ve done. For now, though, I just want to enjoy having you back.”

John can hear the unevenness in his own words, can barely speak through the overwhelming relief that seems to be seeping into every inch of his being, and Sherlock makes an almost hurt sound as he drops his head forward slightly, still not turning around to look at him. He can feel the way Sherlock is shaking again, though, and John takes a steadying breath as he slowly slides his hand down to Sherlock’s elbow, giving the man plenty of time to bolt, and gently tightening his grip when Sherlock doesn’t try to pull away. 

“I’d really like to hug you now, if that’s okay.”

His own voice is barely audible, broken around the edges in ways he has no hope of controlling, and Sherlock makes another noise that sounds almost pained before he turns around so suddenly he almost knocks John over, curling his arms hard around John’s back and pulling him in close, pressing his face into John’s hair and leaving John to bury his own face into Sherlock’s neck. The feeling of suddenly being pressed so close together hits John like a physical blow, and he realizes he’s barely breathing as he carefully tightens his arms around Sherlock, something inside him finally seeming to slot into place as he closes his eyes against the skin of Sherlock’s neck, inhaling slowly and breathing in the scent of him.

“It’s alright, Sherlock. We’re gonna be alright.”

John knows it’s not that simple, know that he might well be promising something impossible, but from the way that Sherlock is shaking against him, and the way John can feel himself trembling right back, John figures that both of them need to hear the lie right now.


	2. Chapter 2

The rest of the day passes in some kind of haze.

The word seems somehow fuzzy around the edges, and John spends a good chunk of time sitting on one of the sofa chairs in the living room, watching as Sherlock takes to their current situation with a somewhat disconcerting amount of determination. He thinks he should offer to help, but his own body seems too heavy to manage, and he finds himself simply sitting in silence, watching Sherlock at work, his whole body tightening with something not completely unpleasant whenever Sherlock glances in his direction. He only realizes that he’s been watching Sherlock like he’s going to disappear when he catches Sherlock staring at him in exactly the same way, and by the time evening arrives John has finally gotten enough courage to pull Sherlock into another hesitant hug.

Sherlock goes so still against him he almost seems to be vibrating, but he gingerly returns the gesture, wrapping his arms around John as though he’s still not sure exactly how he’s supposed to do it, and John simply presses up against him and clings to the feeling of Sherlock’s body against his own, tangible proof that, for the moment, they’re both alive. That night, when John eventually falls asleep in the living room sofa chair as Sherlock types away on his laptop, John wakes up again to find Sherlock tugging him to his feet and leading him back to Sherlock’s bedroom, nudging him into bed and sliding under the covers with him without saying a word.

“Sherlock –”

“I’m going to get you out of this, John. I swear.”

The words are low, barely audible in the darkness of the tiny room, and John swallows hard, his whole body lighting up with something as Sherlock shifts close enough for their shoulders to brush together. Suddenly feeling like he’s about to fly apart, John shifts as close as he dares, everything inside him aching to wrap his arms around Sherlock, and when he finally feels himself managing to drift off to sleep, it’s to the press of Sherlock’s shoulder against his own, and the slow sound of Sherlock’s steady breathing.

The morning of day two finds John slowly blinking himself awake to find Sherlock sitting on the bed beside him, long legs stretched out along the bed, and his laptop on his knees. The sight of him there – his undeniable realness, the tangible sensation of his hip pressed up against John’s elbow – sends a wave of incredulity across John’s body, and his voice isn’t quite steady as he eventually puts words together.

“Get any sleep?”

“No.”

“Sherlock –”

“Feel free to continue sleeping. You could use the rest.”

Sherlock isn’t quite looking at him, something in his voice sounding like it’s wired to shatter, and John swallows hard as he sits up a bit, wanting to reach out and touch, press his hands into Sherlock’s shoulders and try to take some of that tension away.

“Sherlock –”

“If you’d like to be useful, you can inform Mrs. Hudson that you have moved back in, and you can –”

“Hey, it’s okay.” John pushes himself up enough to move the blankets down over his knees, somehow finding the guts to rest a hand on Sherlock’s elbow, the simple feeling of Sherlock’s sleeve beneath his fingers enough to make his heart triple in speed. “I’m not going to try to pull you away from whatever you’re working on. I know you. This is how you deal. But your brain can’t function at peak capacity without food and sleep.”

“Sleep is boring.”

But it doesn’t have the usual disdain, something much more fragile in the words, and Sherlock has stopped typing on the laptop, his eyes dropping down to where John’s hand is pressed against his elbow, and his face creased into the tiniest hint of a frown. John finds himself taking a moment to simply stare at him, taking in the smudges that have formed under his eyes, the pale tint of his skin – too pale, John thinks distantly – and then Sherlock suddenly looks up to meet his gaze, and John swallows hard at the unexpected wave of arousal that burns its way across his skin, getting all tangled up with the relief that’s been humming constantly throughout his entire system since he got Sherlock back alive.

Fighting the urge to reach up and brush a lock of hair out from across Sherlock’s eyes, and breathing through the sudden warmth across his body, John tightens his grip on Sherlock’s elbow instead, something inside him seeming to warm pleasantly when Sherlock doesn’t pull away.

“At least let me make you some tea, alright?”

John’s voice is somewhat shaky, and Sherlock’s only response is to nod slightly as he drops his eyes back down to John’s hand. Trying to pretend that his heart isn’t trying to beat out of his chest, John manages a slight smile as he slides off the bed, everything inside him still feeling like it’s about to fly apart as he heads for the kitchen, distantly hoping that sanity may be found in a warm cup of tea. 

Because he can’t do this to Sherlock. 

The thought comes to him in a moment of clarity, and he takes a moment to simply breathe through the realization, as he methodically goes through the motions of putting the kettle on. Because while he knows that Sherlock cares about him, Sherlock has never shown any real interest in romantic or sexual relationships, has never once indicated that he would ever want anything more from John, or from anyone, and if they only have one year left together, then the last John wants to do is screw up his friendship with the man who was worth selling his soul for. 

His mind flashes back to that day with his therapist, to the things he had never been able to say to Sherlock. Things he had been too cowardly to even admit to himself, let alone say out loud, until that horrible moment when he’d looked up at the hospital roof, and realized that he was going to lose Sherlock forever, and it had felt like having his heart torn straight out of his chest. Things like _I think I’ve fallen in love with you_ and _I can’t do this life thing without you_ and _you have saved me in more ways that I could ever possibly say_. Things he had never found the courage to say, things he had thought he would never get the chance to say –

And now. Now John has Sherlock back, has him back when he thought he would never see him again, but he only has a year before Hell comes to collect him. And the thought of spending any part of that year without Sherlock – the thought of losing what they already have – is enough to stop the air in his chest. He might have made peace with the fact that he’s not quite as straight as he once thought, made peace with the fact that Sherlock seems to have crawled underneath his skin and made a home for himself, made peace with the fact that, yes, he is definitely in love with his flatmate, but there’s no reason to drag Sherlock into the mess of John’s emotions, when he knows with painful clarity that he would rather have this relationship than nothing at all.

\- - -

After a few hours, Sherlock eventually emerges from the bedroom and begins pacing in circles, muttering to himself and staring at the walls. He starts creating diagrams and doing more research on his laptop and drawing his own blood and probably doing all sorts of things that John doesn’t even want to know about. It’s when a young woman – someone John has never seen before – shows up on the doorstep of their apartment with yet another dead black cat that John stars to get very concerned.

“Sherlock,” he manages, when he finds himself standing in the living room doorway, holding the large plastic bag in his hand, and staring at Sherlock, who’s silently typing away on his laptop, “She brought us another dead cat.”

“Indeed.”

“Look, what –”

“Homeless network. You wouldn’t want to imagine the things that end up dead and drowned in alleyways and gutters. Much better than trying to get a cat at a shelter.”

“How did you even – no, never mind. And is the homeless network your answer for everything?”

“They watched out for you, didn’t they?”

John feels something warm spread out across his limbs, starting in his chest and working its way across his entire body. He swallows hard and thinks back – thinks of the man who had stopped him from drowning himself, of the woman who had leant him her coat overnight – and has to breathe around the sudden tightness in his throat.

“You had people watching out for me?”

“Of course I did. I wasn’t going to leave you completely alone.”

“But –”

“Molly and Mycroft, too. It’s how I knew how to find you at the crossroads.”

It’s the first time either of them have mentioned John’s deal since the first time they talked about it, and John swallows hard as he struggles with the sudden awareness of his limited time, even as something seems to draw a little tighter across Sherlock’s face. Something else, though, tugs at John’s mind, pulling him away from the knowledge of the short time he has left, and he feels his face crease into a frown.

“Mycroft knows you’re alive?”

“I needed his assistance in tracking down some of Moriarty’s people.”

“And why didn’t either of them tell – wait, hang on. She also knew what demons were. Molly knew that woman, the one who –”

“John. I can’t think with you talking at me. Please put that dead feline in the kitchen.”

“Sherlock –”

“I will tell you everything you want to know. But I need to find you a solution first.”

“But –”

“I am not letting you go to Hell for me.”

There’s something fragile to Sherlock’s voice again, barely audible under the determination, and his eyes are firmly fixed on the laptop in front of him. The words seem to seep into John’s body, sending a wave of pure fear across his skin, and he swallows hard as he tightens his grip on the bag and looks away.

“Right. Thanks.”

“The cat goes in the kitchen, John.”

Sherlock still isn’t looking at him, still isn’t even trying to meet his eyes, and John exhales sharply as he leaves the room, depositing the cat beside the fridge and doing his best to not let himself fly apart. Standing there, hearing Sherlock still typing away behind him, John takes a moment to wrap his arms around himself, closing his eyes and digging deep for the courage that had always gotten him through long nights in Afghanistan. Then, he very deliberately steadies himself and turns back to face Sherlock, trying to blink some of the fuzziness away from the corners of his vision.

A week ago he hadn’t believed in any kind of afterlife. Now he’s apparently on the fast-track to Hell. And if anyone can get them out of this mess, it’s Sherlock.

“What can I do to help?”

\- - -

By the time the clock hits midnight, John has disassembled a cat, donated a vial of his own blood, spent a ridiculous amount of time on google, done extensive research into Satanic lore, emailed his problem to a number of terrifying sounding cults, and just about torn out his own hair in exhaustion and frustration. Sherlock, on no sleep and only a handful of scrambled eggs, has continued to type away at the laptop when he not busy fiddling around with some kind of experiment that involves their blood and a microscope, and John has just begun to drift off while sitting in front of his laptop when a loud crash jolts him awake.

“What –”

His heart’s racing hard enough to choke him, nerves strung too tight, and it takes him a second to register that Sherlock’s microscope is in pieces on the floor, a mess of blood and glass spread out across the wooden panelling. Sherlock is standing with his face pressed into his hands, and John gets to his feet as quickly as he can, reaching out to press his fingers around Sherlock’s elbows.

“Sherlock – look, it’s alright –”

“I don’t know how to save you. I always know the answer, and now, just when it matters the most, I can’t solve the case.”

“Hey, look, we have time –”

“I live in the real world. Not this fictitious monstrosity. I have never believed in demons or Hell or crossroads or selling one’s soul or – it doesn’t make sense, any of it, and I don’t know how to help you.”

Sherlock’s words have been muffled into his hands, his entire body tight underneath John’s fingers, and he flinches a bit when John tugs gently on his elbows, his stomach turning over at the way Sherlock seems about to shake himself apart.

“The answer doesn’t have to happen tonight. Let’s get some sleep, Sherlock. Tomorrow you can tell me how you survived, and we can keep looking for a solution.”

For a long moment, there’s no response from Sherlock. Then, he pulls himself away from John and crosses the kitchen without looking at him, leaving the door to his bedroom halfway open. Feeling quite shaky himself, John glances at the bloody mess on the floor and then turns away with a sigh, flicking off all the kitchen lights and hesitantly pressing the bedroom door all the way open.

“Sherlock?”

There’s silence for a couple of seconds, and then Sherlock makes a soft noise of affirmation. Deciding that that’s the best response he’s going to get, John closes the door behind him and hesitantly climbs into the bed, climbing under the covers the same way they had the night before – and something inside him eases a bit when Sherlock shuffles over close enough that their bodies are pressed against each other, shoulders and hips brushing up against each other. Tightening his hands into fists at his sides, a surge of need spreading out across his body from where his shoulder is pressed against Sherlock’s, John fights the urge to reach out and curl himself around Sherlock’s entire body.

“Get some rest, alright? Tomorrow – well, we’ll figure something out.”

John is pretty sure he’s lying again, knows that they both know it, and when Sherlock remains a wall of tension strung out on the bed beside him, John sighs softly and closes his eyes, well aware that sleep will be a long time coming. 

\- - -

When John eventually drifts towards consciousness again, the room is dark save for a hint of light from the moon, and John can just make out the sight of Sherlock sprawled out beside him, stretched out full length on top of the blankets. His first sleepy thought is gratitude that Sherlock is sleeping, at least, and his second is that – even with his eyes closed and his hair a mess on the pillow – Sherlock doesn’t look any more relaxed than he does when he’s awake. There’s still a level of tension to him, the lines of his face creased into something that looks like unease, and John doesn’t quite manage to bite back a sigh, because, wow, that’s familiar. The inability to find rest, even when one is sleeping. And John has no idea what the hell they’re doing here – what this bed sharing even means to Sherlock, whether he’s getting some kind of comfort out of it, or whether he simply thinks that this way he can make sure John doesn’t disappear – but based on the way Sherlock still looks like he’s going to vibrate apart, whatever they’re doing here isn’t exactly working.

Pushing that thought away – and fighting the traitorous voice in his head that’s informing him that Sherlock would probably sleep better if he had John’s arms around him – John slides out of bed as quietly as he can, suddenly too restless to make any real attempt at sleep. It’s only when he’s flicked on the kitchen light that he remembers the broken microscope on the floor, and he’s just finished cleaning up the blood and glass from the floor when he notices an envelope sticking out from underneath the living room door. An envelope that definitely wasn’t there earlier. 

Slowly straightening up, feeling a little ridiculous as he finds himself glancing uneasily around the apartment, John crosses the room and picks up the envelope – and the letter that slips out sends a full out shudder straight down his spine.

_3 o’clock this afternoon, Mr. Holmes. The warehouse at the end of Tanza Road. If you don’t show, the doctor dies._

Any remaining sleepiness seems to have vacated from John’s body, a surge of adrenaline skipping across his skin – this is so many kinds of not good, so many levels of not okay, and then he’s crossing the apartment again, the feeling of being watched increasing with every step. It’s only when he reaches the relative safety of the bedroom that he finds himself hesitating, taking in the sight of Sherlock still sprawled out in sleep – but the letter feels like fire in his hands, and John knows that he would want to be woken up, if the situation was reversed. Leaving this to be dealt with in the morning would probably only make things worse.

“Sherlock,” he murmurs, and then moves to stand beside the bed, putting a hand onto the curve of Sherlock’s shoulder, “I’m sorry to wake you, but you need to see something.”

There are a few moments of silence, and then John can actually feel the tension returning to Sherlock’s body, his shoulder going tight underneath John’s fingers. He doesn’t have time to be concerned about it, though, because Sherlock is rolling onto his back and staring up at him, blinking almost owlishly in the dim light of the moon, and if John wasn’t so unimpressed by the current situation, he would probably find Sherlock rather adorable right now. As it is, John simply squeezes Sherlock on the shoulder, and then reaches over to flick on the bedside lamp.

“Close your eyes.”

Sherlock’s eyes are closed when the lights come on, and he gives it a few seconds before slowly blinking them open, and then he’s sitting up in bed a bit, his eyes flicking down to the paper in John’s hand.

“What is it. You wouldn’t have woken me if it wasn’t important.” 

Silently, John hands it to him, and watches as Sherlock’s face creases into a scowl. Without looking up, he slides out of the bed and brings the letter closer to his face, probably looking for any hint as to who sent it.

“I suppose you’re going to tell me you don’t want me to go.”

“Would it work?”

“No.”

“Then I’m coming with you.”

“Since it is your life that is being threatened, perhaps it would be prudent –”

“I’m coming with you.”

Sherlock’s lips press together a little more tightly at that, but he doesn’t take his eyes from the letter, turning it over as though there might be something on the bottom that could tell him something new.

“Fine. You should sleep. I need to think.”

Sherlock doesn’t give him a chance to respond. He’s up off the bed and out of the room almost as soon as he’s done speaking, and John doesn’t even bother fighting the urge to bury his face in his hands, a sudden wave of nausea sweeping across his body, because this – this is the last thing he wants. To be Sherlock’s weak spot, to be the reason that Sherlock is walking into something that neither of them understand, and that neither of them know how to fight. This is – there is just nothing good about any of this, but John knows that nothing will convince Sherlock to not go, and the last thing he’s going to do is let him go alone.

\- - -

By the time they make it to the abandoned warehouse that seems to have been selected for this encounter – after a tense night in which Sherlock had been plastered to a second microscope, and John had tossed and turned for hours, lying awake and staring in silence at the wall – John feels like he’s about to scratch off his own skin. It’s like something from a bad movie – all dilapidated walls and doors hanging clean off the hinges – and the cool metal press of John’s gun in his hand isn’t bringing him much in the way of comfort. 

“Are we’re actually going in there? I mean – humans we can deal with. Demons, if that’s what this is –” 

“I need answers, John.”

“Yeah, I get that, but –”

“And we are not going to risk your life by turning away now.”

The words are laced with finality, and then Sherlock is moving forward to enter the building, and John sighs softly as he follows him into the dimly lit main room, taking in the dusty walls and cobwebs and old planks of discarded plywood. He’s just moved to inspect an old box of crates when he hears something that sounds like a door slamming, and his eyes cut across the building, trying to find the source of the noise – 

“John!”

John barely has time to turn around before he’s leaving the floor and crashing into the wall, hitting the floor hard and losing the air from his lungs, his gun clattering off across the floor. Everything spins as he tries to get oxygen, and then there’s a cry of pain from Sherlock, and John manages to suck in enough air to raise his eyes and watch Sherlock slide across the floor into the wall on the other side of the room.

“Sherlock,” John hears himself wheeze, panic streaking through him – and then the woman standing in front of Sherlock twists her hand, and Sherlock slams against the floor again, hitting the concrete hard, and John doesn’t realize that he’s trying to get over there until he suddenly realizes that _he can’t move at all._

“Don’t be so eager, doctor. You’ll get your turn.”

Spitting through blood, feeling his tongue catch against a tear in his lip, John concentrates on getting enough oxygen, concentrates on getting air into his body, helplessness making his lungs tighten even further in his chest. Sherlock is pushing himself to his knees with a barely audible groan, a splash of blood across his forehead, dripping down into his eyes, and John wants to cry out but he doesn’t have enough air.

“What – what do you want?”

“Oh, Sherlock. Surely you don’t expect me to give up all my secrets, now –”

Sherlock goes for a hunk of wood resting in a pile on the floor, but the demon – oh god, John can see her eyes now – moves too quickly, yanking Sherlock up by his coat and shoving him against the wall, holding him in place as though he weighs nothing. John watches as Sherlock stops struggling, letting himself go limp and meeting the demon’s gaze straight on, and the sudden realization that Sherlock could die, right here, with John watching and unable to save him, is enough to tear a new groan from John’s chest.

Then, horribly, the demon begins to slowly stroke her fingers along the arch of Sherlock’s cheekbone, a smirk turning up the edges of her lips, but Sherlock doesn’t even flinch away from the touch, not moving save to blink the blood from his eyes.

“What do you want from me?" 

“Don’t flatter yourself, sugar. You’re just the bait. And your precious doctor can’t do a thing to save you.”

John can barely hear the words, can barely process them, because he’s _still pinned to the damn floor_ by some force that he can’t even see, and then the demon is yanking Sherlock away from the fall, shoving him in front of her in the direction of the door, and if she walks out that door with Sherlock, then John will never, ever forgive himself.

“Sherlock – dammit, Sherlock –”

“Don’t. Don’t, John. Just – shut up and let –”

“Ah, right, doctor. Unlike dear Sherlock here, you are not necessary to my plan.”

The danger in her voice sends a wave of fear across John’s body, and then she’s letting Sherlock go to crouch down in front of John, a hand curling around his chin with deceptive gentleness – and John determinedly keeps his eyes on her, refusing to look over her shoulder at Sherlock, because he knows that grip, knows he’s about to get his neck snapped, and there is no way is he going to make Sherlock meet his eyes while that happens.

“Say farewell to –”

“No!”

The desperation in Sherlock’s voice is like a shock from John’s body, and then Sherlock is trying to yank the demon up by the shoulder, moving her just far enough that her fingers slide free from John’s chin – and with a snarl Sherlock is being picked up off the ground, her fingers tight around his neck, and the demon’s face is twisting into a scowl –

And then John is left gaping as a man enters the room from behind her, sprints across the concrete floor, and slams a knife into her upper back. There’s a flash of light, the demon letting out a shriek as some kind of energy seems to flash across her entire body – and then she’s crumpling to the floor on top of Sherlock, slamming him to the ground with the weight of her body, and John is pulling her off him before he even realizes he’s able to move again.

“Sherlock –” His fingers are in Sherlock’s hair, he distantly realizes, and his heart feels like it’s about to burst out of his chest, relief making him dizzy. “Sherlock, you –”

“Fine, John – I’m fine –”

John distantly realizes that Sherlock is shaking, too, and then there’s a hand on his shoulder, and their rescuer is scowling down at them.

“Save the relief for later. We need to get out of here.”

There’s an unquestioned order in his voice, but John can’t quite move from where he’s kneeling in front of Sherlock, his hair still tangled into John’s fingers. Sherlock raises his eyes to meet his, the relief there so palpable John can almost taste it, and John can’t help but press his finger close to the broken skin on Sherlock’s forehead, his eyes narrowing at the way blood is still dripping down into Sherlock’s eyes. 

“Sherlock –”

“Are you alright?” 

“Are you?”

“Yes, I –”

“Then yeah, I’m okay.”

Sherlock lets out a shaky exhale in response, and then there’s a scoffing sound from the man standing beside them, and John reluctantly pulls away from Sherlock, climbing to his feet and helping Sherlock to do the same, all the while doing his best to ignore the way their rescuer is scowling at them.

“If I ever get as sappy as you two, Sam might as well just take me out and shoot me.”

“Hey. That thing was about to kill me. I think I’m entitled to a little sap.”

John hears the words before they really process with his brain, but their rescuer simply snorts, his eyes never once staying still, scanning across the room as he keeps a solid grip on the bloodied knife in his hand. John takes a moment to glance down at the dead woman lying at their feet, but then their rescuer is jerking his head in the direction of the door, impatience written on his face.

“Alright, lovebirds. Let’s get out of here.”

Then the guy is heading for the door, and Sherlock stares at John for a second longer before he exhales sharply and turns, leaving John to grab his gun from the floor, stick it in the holster, and then turn to trail after Sherlock and their rescuer. They barely make it out the warehouse before they’re joined by a second man, but John is barely paying attention, too busy darting glances at Sherlock to make sure that he’s still upright. The cut on his forehead doesn’t look deep, but John wants to get a better look at it, and that’s not going to happen while they’re all standing around in front of the warehouse.

“Cas is taking care of the other three on the other side of the building.” The man – one of the tallest men John has seen in a long time, with shoulders that are probably twice as broad as John’s are – is scowling at the man who rescued them, though the effect is somewhat ruined by the obvious relief in his eyes. “Dammit, Dean, you should have waited for –”

“No time. She was gonna make a meal out of these two.”

“Alright, well – let’s get out of here before any others –”

“Dean.”

The voice comes from behind them, and John spins around, taking in the sight of a third man who’s appeared seemingly from nowhere, wearing a trench coat and staring past John as though he’s not even there. John chances a side glance at Sherlock, trying to figure out if Sherlock understands anything that’s going on, but Sherlock’s eyes are busy flicking back and forth between the three men, obviously trying to assess the situation – and then there’s a hand on his shoulder, and the man who rescued them – Dean – is nodding in the direction of the parking lot.

“Alright. Explanations later. Let’s get out of here.”

“There are no more demons in the vicinity. I have made sure of this.”

“You’re positive?”

There’s something that sounds almost hesitant in Dean’s voice – John might not be as astute as Sherlock, but he’s not exactly bad at reading people – and then the one in the coat is scowling at Dean, somehow managing to make the expression look like someone just kicked his puppy.

“If you’re going to question everything I tell you, then what is the point of me even being here?”

“Dammit, Cas, that’s not what I meant –”

“Guys. Save it for later, ka?”

And then the tall guy is nodding at John, and John isn’t sure about how he feels about being the center of attention, because there’s something incredibly unsettling about trying to stare down these guys, even with Sherlock standing close beside him, and even with the knowledge that Dean has just save his life. 

“Thank you. You saved John’s life.”

Some days, John is fully convinced that Sherlock can actually read minds. There’s something almost fragile sounding in his voice – something that John is pretty sure only he notices – and John does his best to not look at Sherlock, his eyes fixed on the two guys in front of them, even as guy wearing the trench coat continues to lurk somewhat awkwardly behind them.

“All part of the job.” Dean is barely looking at them, his eyes still scanning the area around them. “My name’s Dean, this is Sam, and the one in the coat is Castiel. And you two had best come with us.”

When Sherlock simply offers a nod in response, the three men begin to head in the direction of the parking lot, and John closes his eyes for a moment, realizing that his legs are shaking beneath him. It hits him suddenly that, if Dean hadn’t come along, then not only would John be dead, but Sherlock would be in the possession of that creature, and that thought is enough to send a wave of nausea across his body.

“Come on, John. Right now, they’re our best chance of keeping you alive.”

Sherlock is suddenly standing much closer to him, a warm hand pressed against his elbow, and John nods as he lets Sherlock guide him towards the parking lot, tugging him along beside him. As they begin to walk, he finally chances a glance at Sherlock, who’s watching the three men in front of him, his eyes fixed on their backs as though he can read their entire life stories in the set of the shoulders. 

“Got any ideas?”

He keeps his voice low, not wanting to draw attention to them, and Sherlock presses his lips firmly together.

“Some. I need more data. What I have right now is insufficient.”

“Guesses?”

“You know I don’t like guessing.”

“It seems like this time you might have to.”

When Sherlock’s lips press a little tighter together at that, John finds himself fighting the urge to reach down and gently squeeze Sherlock’s fingers between his own, but then they’re in the parking lot. As Dean and Sam slide into the front seat of a car, and Dean brings the car to rumbling life, Castiel turns towards John and Sherlock with an expression that John can’t quite read. 

“If you would allow me, I can fix your injuries now.”

“How so?”

Sherlock’s voice is slightly weary, his body going tense beside John, but Castiel simply raises his fingers to hover them just over Sherlock’s forehead, not quite touching the broken skin.

“May I?”

Sherlock stares at Castiel for a long moment before he slowly nods, never taking his eyes from Castiel – and then Castiel’s fingers make contact and the skin on Sherlock’s forehead becomes perfectly clear, not a single mark to be seen, all the blood cleaned away to nothingness, and it’s suddenly taking everything John has to keep his knees from buckling out from underneath him.

“Jesus christ,” he hears himself breathe, can barely hear Sherlock’s answering shaky exhale over the white noise in his head, and when Castiel turns towards him, John can only nod. The minute the fingers touch his skin, a wave of warmth seems to spread out across his body, every ache and scratch fading away to nothing, and John doesn’t realize he’s closed his eyes until he opens them again. In front of him, Castiel is glancing between the two them, his expression still devoid of anything recognizable, and John tries to think of anything to say, but his mind seems to have fractured a bit.

“What are you?”

Sherlock’s voice sounds a little shaky, and John doesn’t even trust himself to speak yet, as the parking lot spins a bit from this new level of insanity that has been added to the already insane existence around him. Castiel stares at them for another long moment, a disconcerting expression that John thinks he can feel cut straight through him, and then Castiel drops his eyes down to the dirt beneath their feet.

“I am an angel.”

For a good five seconds or so, the words fail to process, and then John is fighting the white noise at the edges of his mind, his world turning inside out all over again as he simply stares at Castiel, everything in the universe narrowing down to this being – this angel – who is somehow standing in front of him. Beside John, Sherlock swallows hard and takes a step closer to Castiel, his eyes skittering up and down the length of Castiel’s – of the angel’s – body, before returning to his face.

“You – but how –”

“Hey, guys. Now that that’s done, save the stories for while we’re en route, would ya?”

Dean’s voice barely processes through the crackling noise still making a home in John’s head, and Castiel doesn’t look at them as he turns to slide into the car, leaving John and Sherlock to stand side-by-side in silence. John can feel the way his body is starting to shake a little, and from the unhealthy tint of Sherlock’s face – even paler than normal – John is pretty sure he’s not the only one who feels like he’s flying apart.

“Come on, you two. He doesn’t bite. Now get in that back seat so we can get the hell out of here.”

Dean’s voice still seems to be coming from a distance, but somehow John makes his legs move, gets a hand on Sherlock’s shirt sleeve and tugs, and when they finally get into the back seat, John ends up wedged in between Sherlock and Castiel, and jesus christ, he’s riding in a car with an angel. The mere thought makes the world spin a bit more, and John closes his eyes as he tilts his head back to rest it against the seat, his mind trying – and failing – to make sense of a world in which angels were real.

“Who are you?”

Sherlock’s voice is a barely there thing, and John opens his eyes to see Sam turning around in his seat to face Sherlock, something that looks like a strained smile slipping across his face. 

“Frankly, the less you know about us, the better. We – well, we’re actually kinda in the middle of something, so now that you’re safe – where would you like us to drop you off?”

“That demon said I was bait. Perhaps it would be prudent for you to not leave us just yet.”

The effect of those words is instantaneous. Sam’s smile slips away completely, to be replaced with something that looks like a flash of frustration, and Dean sighs softly as he seems to sag back against the seat he’s leaning again, his shoulders pressing harder into the old material. 

“Fanfuckingtastic. Just what we needed right now. Babysitting.”

“Hey. This might be new to us, but Sherlock and I aren’t completely useless, you know.”

John’s not sure when he got his voice back, and it’s probably not a good idea to antagonize the guy who’s just saved your life – but the unexpected reaction is a rather ungraceful snort from Dean.

“Nothing against you, buddy. We just got bigger fish to fry right now.”

“But –”

“Look – it’s John, right? All we were looking for was a place to squat. You’re damn lucky we ran into ya. And we really don’t have time to make nice with the demons right now, so if you want our help, you’d best start naming people who could be in danger by knowing you.”

“If these demons are so powerful, why would they require me as bait?”

Sherlock’s voice still doesn’t sound like he’s completely recovered from the fact that angels apparently exist, but John can almost hear the way he’s trying to draw his composure around him again, and he wonders, suddenly, how much this must be driving Sherlock crazy, to not know everything about everything for once.

“Hell if I know. Just – start naming some names, alright?”

“My older brother practically is the British government. Everyone else except the local mortician believes me to be dead, and the demons would not require bait to gain access to her.”

It’s delivered the same way that Sherlock often delivers incredulous news – as though whatever he’s saying is a perfectly normal thing to say – and John watches as Sam and Dean exchange a quick glance, something that John has no hope of deciphering, before Dean sighs softly and turns back to watching the road.

“Well, that’s… new. Makes our job easier, at least.”

“You do not wish to know why the world believes me to be dead?”

“Believe me, buddy, and it’s nothing personal, but we don’t have time for this, and if there’s only one person that demon could have been talking about, that makes my life a lot easier.”

“What kind of bigger fish?”

“Nothing that you wanna know about. If you had a demon on your ass, that’s more than enough for you to manage. Now – where am I going?”

Dean glances up into the mirror as he speaks, his eyes catching John’s for a second, and John swallows down his own curiosity as he nudges Sherlock ever so slightly, hoping that he’ll take the hint and just accept Dean’s help. There’s a moment of silence from Sherlock, until he presses his lips together and sits back a little against the seat.

“I can give you the address of my brother’s mansion.”

“Fine. You guys got a house around here?”

“We have an apartment.”

“Alright. Sam’ll grab your brother. I’ll get you two started on demon-proofing the apartment. Sound like a plan?”

The question is directed at Sam more than anyone else, and when Sam nods, John finds himself wondering what exactly the story is with these two. This is obviously something they do – something that is commonplace and somehow normal for them – and from the ease of it, they’ve probably been doing it for a while. John might not have Sherlock’s impressive brain capacity, but even he can see that this must be some kind of way of life for these two.

And as for Castiel – the trench-coating wearing angel who’s been pressed up against John the entire time, staring out the window and not saying a single word – well. John’s just going to not think too hard about him, because the idea of demons is already too much. Throwing angels into the mix is just – it’s a whole new level of crazy, and he’s pretty sure he’s getting pretty damn close to reaching his quota on that.

“I will send him a text letting informing him that you’re on your way. It’s the only way you’ll get anywhere near him.”

The words are directed at Sam, who smiles ever so slightly at Sherlock, a barely there twitch that’s still downright expressive in comparison to the angel who’s pressed up against John.

“Thanks. And honestly, this is more precaution than anything. If that demon’s dead, then you’re probably safe, regardless of what she wanted your brother for. After we get him –”

“Unfortunately, the events of today have not been the full extent of our interactions with demons.”

As Sherlock’s voice cuts in across Sam’s, John is pretty sure he can see the way a line of tension spreads out across the set of Dean’s shoulders.

“Come again?”

“John sold his soul for me.”

John feels the words curl up unpleasantly in his stomach, can hear the forced nonchalance in Sherlock’s voice, and the reaction from the other three is instantaneous. Castiel turns to stare at John with an expression that he has no chance of reading, while Sam suddenly looks like he’s been hit across the face, the colour actually seeming to drain from his skin, even as Dean lets out a sigh that seems to come from somewhere deep inside him.

“Well, that – fuck. That complicates things. I – don’t get your hopes up, alright? I’ll – we’ll do what I can for ya, but – well, we’ll see.”

“Thanks. I – well, I appreciate anything you can do.”

Dean’s only response to John’s words is to nod sharply, and then the car descends into silence as Sam seems to try to find something to look at that isn’t John, and Castiel makes up for that by staring at John as though he can see straight through to the soul in question. When the angel finally turns to look out the window again, not saying a single word, John only realizes how strung out he is when he jumps at the feeling of Sherlock suddenly inching a bit closer to him. It’s a barely there movement, but then Sherlock is nudging him with his elbow, his phone in his palm and his fingers pressing down on the send button, and the answering buzz in John’s pocket comes not thirty seconds later. 

_Both Dean and Sam have some kind of personal connection to selling one’s soul. Among several other things, the most obvious is that you nearly getting killed by a demon didn’t phase them, while the idea of you going to Hell does. I will find some way to convince them to help you._

A spread of something comforting and warm seeps across his body, breaking through some of the nausea that had arisen at the mention of Hell, and John can’t help the tiny quirk of his lips, the way his insides suddenly seem to be imitating a seventeen-year-old on prom night. After a second, Sherlock glances at him sideways, just the tiniest movement of his head, something that looks like uncertainty flashing across his face, and John lets his smile get a bit wider.

“Thanks.”

It’s low, barely audible, the word nearly getting smothered by the heavy silence around them, but he knows Sherlock hears it, because his lips twitch up somewhat hesitantly in response, and John only turns away again when he realizes he’s officially reaching the point when looking at Sherlock any longer would be considered staring. And whatever it is that’s going on here – this brave new world where Sherlock seems to be more at ease with expressing emotions, even if it still seems to be somewhat disconcerting for him – John isn’t going to think about it too hard. Because after that scene on the hospital roof, after the way it had clearly broken Sherlock apart to hurt John that badly – well. If anyone ever tries to tell John that Sherlock can’t feel things like anyone else can, he’s going to laugh right in their face.

That thought, however, reminds him of something, and he can feel the lines of his face draw a little tighter as he reaches back into his pocket, pulling out the phone again.

_You still haven’t told me how you survived the fall from the hospital roof._

He watches Sherlock’s reaction out of the corner of his eye, and apparently it was the wrong thing to text, because every line of Sherlock is suddenly drawn with unease, and John can actually feel the way he’s tense against the side of his body. He thinks, distantly, that Sherlock looks like he’s been caught doing something John would disapprove of – something like putting a head in the fridge, or leaving eyeballs out to go bad on the kitchen counter – and then Sherlock is exhaling softly and texting back, his fingers flying across the tiny keyboard.

_I will. Later. You won’t like it._

John stares down at the screen of his phone, something unpleasant settling in his stomach, and when he looks at Sherlock again, Sherlock is very deliberately not looking back at him. John can’t help but stare at him for a moment longer, and then he silently slips the phone into his pocket, the feeling of warmth from Sherlock’s earlier text completely washed away.


	3. Chapter 3

John isn’t sure what he was expecting to happen when they get back to the apartment, but it hadn’t been for Dean to go straight to the kitchen table, plunk down a rucksack full of truly disconcerting weapons, and pull out a large bag of salt. 

“Uh –”

“If you’re being chased my demons, salt is your friend.”

“Alright, then.”

The idea of salt being able to stop something as powerful as a demon seems somehow ridiculous, and John drags his eyes away from the unfortunate items in the rucksack to glance at Sherlock, who’s taken a seat in one of the sofa chairs, and is staring at the wall in front of him. On the other side of the room, standing motionless by the window, Castiel is watching the street below in silence, and John has a moment of wondering if this entire situation feels as surreal to everyone else as it does to him.

“So – why the salt, then?”

“You make a line of it, demons can’t get across. Salt your windows, your doors, your vents –anywhere that a demon could possibly get through.”

“I thought they were… well, they look like people.”

“A demon on its own is a cloud of black smoke. Their vessels are just the people they’re riding.”

It’s said casually, almost carelessly, as Dean goes back to digging through his bag, not a hint of expression on his face, and John feels himself swallow around something unpleasant in his throat. He knows what it’s like to be a soldier, knows how to see it in someone else – and while it’s clear that Dean is exactly that, John is pretty sure that he’s not like most of soldiers John had known in Afghanistan. 

“And this, here – this knife kills demons. You saw me do it today. You stab one through the heart, it dies. Easy as that. Not that you’ll ever use it, but I wanted you to know, cause demons can’t be killed by anything other than this – so don’t ever go stabbing one. And you might as well dump the gun – it’s not gonna do ya any good. Ya can send a demon back to Hell instead – I’ll write ya out some basic exorcisms. And you’d better be relaying all this to your buddy over there.”

“I’m listening.”

Sherlock doesn’t look at them as he speaks, and Dean stares at him for a second, as though trying to figure him out, before he shakes his head slightly and turns back to John.

“You’re dealing with all this remarkably well. Most people would be curled up in a corner.”

“I – well, I guess I’ve been trained to function under pressure. I’m a soldier. Was, a soldier. In Afghanistan. Army doctor.”

“Sounds like fun times.”

There doesn’t seem to be even a hint of morbid humour there – only what sounds like weariness – and John suddenly wants to know exactly what is it about Dean that’s making John’s skin tighten uncomfortably. This man had saved his life not even an hour ago, yes, but there somehow seems to be something about Dean that seems darker than any soldier John has met before.

“Were you – have you been a soldier, before?”

“You could say that.”

“And where did you serve?”

Dean stares at him for a moment longer, before he goes back to digging through his rucksack, only meeting John’s eyes again once he’s lugged out a second bag of salt.

“I don’t trade war stories when I’m sober. Why don’t you take this – I’ll check the lines when you’re done. First I’m gonna paint some symbols that’ll help keep make place a bit safer, and then you and your boyfriend there can start reading over some exorcisms.”

“We’re not – he’s not –”

And then John bites off the protest, the same protest he’s made so many times before, finding himself suddenly stumbling over the words, somehow not able to argue against the assumption for once, and jesus, that’s awkward. Dean is staring at him with his eyebrows slightly raised, an utterly unreadable expression on his face, and, out of the corner of his eye, John can see Sherlock watching him in silence, and John suddenly has this horrible feeling that his cheeks are flushing.

“Look, buddy, I don’t care. S’long as you can carry a sack of salt and you’re not a demon, you can stay.”

Dean picks up a spray can and turns away with what’s probably meant to be an encouraging half-smile – an expression that just comes out looking a little pained – and John is left standing by the kitchen table, staring down at the bag of salt. Taking a moment to very deliberately not look at Sherlock, he gets his shit back together and moves across the kitchen to start with the windows in Sherlock’s room.

Apparently the boyfriend assumption was a lot easier to deal with before John realized that he was indeed in love with his flatmate.

Doing his best to shove that thought away – along with everything else he’s deliberately not thinking about – John sticks his gun into the drawer of Sherlock’s bedroom cabinet, and then focuses all his attention on salting the windows and vents in Sherlock’s room, before proceeding to cover the rest of the apartment, laying a line of salt anywhere that could be considered an entrance to the building. He might not have tangled with demons before, but he’s a soldier, and he knows how to follow directions. If Dean wants every entrance covered, then that’s exactly what’s he’s going to get.

It can’t take him more than twenty minutes to do the whole apartment, and he eventually finds himself back in the living room, where Sherlock is on his laptop, and Dean is standing beside a painted series of symbols on the floor. Castiel is still standing beside the window, and John watches as Dean darts an unreadable glance at him before turning to John.

“Alright. Devil’s trap. If a demon walks in, they can’t walk out until the line is broken. You can paint ’em on floors, ceilings – hide them under rugs, as long as you don’t smear the edges – whatever works. They’re good to have in doorways.”

“And they keep demons out?”

“Yup. And now that we’ve got this place on lockdown, we’re gonna all get comfy and have a chat.”

John can only nod, and they all eventually end up in various positions across the living room – Sherlock and John in the sofa chairs, and Dean sitting on the floor, leaning up against the wall. Castiel eventually comes to join them, leaving his position at the window to stand motionless beside Dean’s seated body, and John makes himself look long and hard at Castiel, suddenly trying to process the realization that an angel is standing in his living room.

“Alright, you two. Spill.”

Dean barely looks at them as he speaks, too busy opening the box of beer he’s got seated beside him, and John glances at Sherlock for a moment – watches the way Sherlock is silently watching everyone, trying to take in as much information about them as he can – before John decides that he might as well start talking.

“It’s a long story.”

“We have time. Sam’s not back yet, though he should be soon. Go.”

John is distantly aware that the bossiness should annoy him, but it somehow doesn’t – maybe because Dean has saved his life today, or maybe because Dean seems to be the only one here who knows what’s going on. Either way, John nods and then does his best to convey his thoughts in an order that make sense, starting with Moriarty and ending with the way he had promised his soul to get Sherlock back, and as soon as he finishes explaining that part, there is a visible line of tension spread out across every inch of Dean’s body.

“So you’ve got one year, huh.”

John has the distant thought that Dean is incredibly hard to read – much like Castiel, though in a different way – and when John simply nods, something painful shooting through him as he tries to not think about what’s he’s talking about, Dean simply closes his eyes and takes a long swig of his beer.

“Too bad self-sacrifice isn’t just a Winchester trait.”

John might not understand what exactly that means, or why he thinks he can hear some kind of unfortunate emotion finally slipping into Dean’s voice, but he doesn’t have time to read much more into it, because Sherlock suddenly sits up a little straighter in his chair.

“There’s more to this story. Elements that I haven’t shared with John yet, that you need to know. Such as how I survived the fall from the hospital roof.”

Sherlock pauses for a long moment, then crosses his fingers in front of him and glances out of the corner of his eye at John, something almost furtive flashing across his face – and while it’s true that John might not know yet how Sherlock survived the fall, he’s basically conversant in Sherlock’s facial expressions by now, and the one the detective is currently wearing is definitely apprehension.

“Sherlock, what –”

“I didn’t want you to know this. John, I – was going to find you a way out of your deal, and then I could have fixed my own situation, and you would have never needed to know.”

“Know what?”

John feels something ominous being to spread across his entire body, but Sherlock isn’t looking at him anymore – isn’t looking at anyone, his eyes instead trained on the hands in his own lap. He hesitates for a moment longer, and when he finally begins to speak again, the words are directed towards the floor.

“Moriarty had shooters trained on John, and on two other people of importance in my life. He was going to kill them all if I refused to commit suicide – and, although I had not known the specifics of his plan before I went onto that roof, I had most certainly been aware that he was going to find a way to ensure that I jumped.” 

Sherlock pauses for a second, still not quite looking at John, and John wonders, faintly, if he’s ever going to reach the point of being immune to life-altering epiphanies. Based on the way his lungs are tightening up in his chest – his mind apparently unable to process the fact that Sherlock had jumped to save their lives, that Sherlock had slandered his own name and lied to John in an attempt to protect him – it’s not likely. 

“And so I was planning to go to Molly – the local mortician, who works at the hospital – and request her assistance in faking my own death. I had a plan, and it would have worked.”

“But?”

Dean twists the lid off another beer bottle as he asks, popping it into the box beside him. Sherlock’s lips press together a little more tightly, and John watches as his fingers twitch slightly in front of him, as though they’re looking for something to hold on to, some kind of distraction.

“By the time I got to Molly, she had already been possessed. And when the demon offered me a deal – I would survive the fall, beat Moriarty, and have three years on Earth to destroy the last of Moriarty’s web – I took it.”

The very air in the room seems to stop circulating. There’s a flash of something red at the edges of John’s vision, and then he’s out of his chair, his body flashing from hot to numb and back again, and he’s kneeling in front of Sherlock with his hands digging into the curves of Sherlock’s knees. He tries to speak, tries to make words form in his mouth, and he’s distantly aware of the three others watching the scene, but all John can do is stare up at Sherlock, his vision blurring from something that he distantly realizes is shock.

“You – you –”

“I didn’t want you to know.”

Sherlock isn’t looking at him, his eyes fixed firmly somewhere over John’s shoulder, and John feels a yell building in his throat, threatening to come up and swamp him – and he only realizes he’s trying to leave the room when Sherlock is suddenly on his feet, his hand curled around John’s elbow. John is distantly aware that Dean and Castiel are watching the entire scene, watching John’s world fall down around him all over again, but it seems far away, somehow, and all he can feel is Sherlock’s hand on his elbow, all he can see are Sherlock’s eyes, fixed on his own with an expression that looks almost pleading.

“John. If Dean and Sam and Castiel are going to attempt to help us, then they need the entire story, which means that you will hear it, too.” 

“Sherlock, I can’t –”

“The demon informed me that she would kill you if I refused to make the deal. You were never supposed to know. I do not yet understand why we have both been targeted by demons, but we have been, and they knew exactly where our pressure points were.”

There’s silence, then, until John feels himself start to buckle, and then Sherlock’s easing him into a sofa chair, his hands never leaving John’s body, holding on tight and trying to keep him steady. There’s too much happening along the edges of John’s mind, too much emotion to be absorbed at the same time, and he’s flashing hot and cold again, waves of sensation that seem to seep down the entire length of his body. The voice, when it comes, seems to be very far away.

“Breathe, John. I know what you’re feeling, and it’s no picnic, but you’ve gotta breathe for us, alright?”

It’s not Sherlock’s voice, but there’s a steadiness in it that somehow promises some kind of safety, cuts through the noise inside his head, and he somehow makes himself concentrate on the sound of it, somehow manages to bring the room into focus around him again, only to find that someone – Dean – is bent down in front of him, his hands wrapped around his arms. 

“Ya good, buddy? Back with us?”

The words seem to process, but John still can’t make himself answer, his eyes skittering away from Dean to find Sherlock, who’s standing beside the sofa chair, his hand still curled around John’s shoulder. There’s an expression of such regret on Sherlock’s face that John can barely make himself look at him, and he takes a long moment to simply breathe, doing as Dean said, before he feels his hand creep up to latch on to Sherlock’s fingers.

“Sherlock – you – you, how could –”

And then he just stops, unable to find anything else, unable to make the words happen. In front of him, Dean seems to study him for a moment longer before he nods once and then straightens up, glancing at Castiel and jerking his head in the direction of the doorway.

“We’ll be upstairs.” 

John barely notices them leaving. Then, it’s just him and Sherlock in the room, and when Sherlock slides his hand out of John’s fingers and crosses over to the room, his back to him and his arms wrapped around himself, John somehow manages to get himself to his feet again.

“I was attempting to account for the demons and for Moriarty, and making the deal seemed like the only way to beat both. You were never supposed to know.”

John simply nods in response, and it comes to him, vaguely, that if this is how Sherlock had felt when he learned that John sold his soul for him, then it’s no wonder Sherlock was on his knees in the dirt with him at that crossroads, his cheeks stained with tears. There’s just – too much, all at once, and John doesn’t know how he can keep feeling like this and survive.

“Do you – do you wish for me to leave you alone now?”

Sherlock still hasn’t turned around, and something sudden and desperate sweeps through John, seizing up his lungs and bringing moisture to his eyes. He blinks hard against the sting and finds himself crossing the room without the consent of his legs, and then he’s putting a hand on Sherlock’s shoulder, the same way as that first morning when he’d woken up to find Sherlock sitting at the end of his bed. He might still be having trouble with words, might still have too much interference on the edges of his mind to put coherent thoughts together, but he owes it to Sherlock to at least try.

“You – Sherlock. You really weren’t going to tell me, were you.”

“I was going to discover a way to break a deal with a demon. Once I had done that, you could have gotten out of your deal, and I could have gotten out of mine. You would have never needed to know.”

“And if you hadn’t found a way?”

“You would have gone to Hell. I would have had two more years on this planet, and then I would have joined you. At least you would have never known I was following you down.”

“So everything you’ve done, everything you’ve been doing since – well, for months now, it’s all, truly, been –”

“Yes, John. It’s all been to protect you. We appear to have reached the point where my attempting to deny that would be futile.”

There’s a world of vulnerability in Sherlock’s voice, suddenly, an audible frustration with what John can only assume are what Sherlock perceives as his own weaknesses, and it somehow makes John think of Baskerville, makes him think of, _I’ve always been able to keep myself distant_ , makes him think of the first time he had ever met Sherlock. The coldness and the aloofness, the way he had seemed made of steel, impenetrable, removed from everything, located somewhere high above the nasty tangle of human emotion – the way he had been completely different from what John is seeing right now. Somehow, John seems to have made an impact, seems to have gotten under Sherlock’s skin in ways that nobody else has, and the thought sends a shudder of steely resolve through him – because Sherlock has gotten under his own skin, too, he knows, has shaped his life in more ways than he can count, has given him a reason to keep getting up in the morning, and if they’re in this together, they’re going to solve it together.

“Friends actually do protect people, ya know. And I’m not letting you go to Hell just as much as you’re not letting me go. I promise you that, Sherlock.”

John can feel the way the words settle across Sherlock’s body, the way his shoulders tense and then relax underneath John’s hand, and he finds himself holding his breath as he waits for some kind of response. After a long moment, Sherlock turns around, and then they’re just left staring at each other, Sherlock’s eyes trained on his face like nothing else in the world even matters.

“Are you – you have every right to be angry with me.” 

“Sherlock –” 

“I – I was so angry with you. I couldn’t help it. You – John, you should have never condemned yourself to Hell for me. I’m not –”

“If that sentence ends with ‘worth it’, then I am actually going to get angry.”

Something seems to crack across Sherlock’s expression, something that looks almost desperate, and then John’s entire body is washing white with heat as a hand slowly comes up to curl around his cheek, the pad of Sherlock’s thumb catching against his bottom lip, a single touch that brings his entire world crashing down around him. John can barely feel the touch at first, can barely think over the fracturing in his mind, and then the thumb slides across the sensitive skin, and sensation comes screaming back to his body.

“Sherlock –”

His voice is shredded, barely there, the movement of his lip moving Sherlock’s thumb with it, and Sherlock is still staring at him, his eyes slipping down to stare at John’s mouth – and then Sherlock moves a tiny step closer, his fingers never leaving the skin of John’s face, and there is – there is absolutely no misinterpreting this. There are things like sharing a bed and then there are things like this, and this is – this is Sherlock touching him with intent, this is Sherlock looking like him like he wants to crawl inside and make a home for himself, and John can distantly hear a needy noise he thinks he should be ashamed of, but he just simply cannot even begin to care.

“Sherlock,” he manages again, and then Sherlock is licking his own lips and glancing back up to John’s eyes, and John gives up on trying to talk. It’s late, it’s dark, there are lines of salt along the windows, protection to keep the demons out, and Sherlock is touching him like he means something by it, and there is simply no way that John could possibly make coherent thoughts happen right now.

“John, I – if we only have a year together – I have never had anyone who – there’s never been –”

“Why didn’t you ever tell me?”

It’s about the best John can manage, his lungs and his heart and everything inside him getting twisted up in ways that feel like too much, too much to handle all at once, euphoria and need and desperation and relief mixing inside him to nearly knock him right off his feet, and then Sherlock is shaking his head and moving a bit closer.

“You were never ready to hear it. I still wasn’t sure that you would be, now. Then Dean assumed that we were together, and you couldn’t seem to argue it.”

There’s an audible hint of hesitation to the words, still, despite the way Sherlock is touching him, as though Sherlock is still expecting him to bolt, and when all John can manage is a nod against the careful press of Sherlock’s hand, Sherlock moves the tiniest bit closer to him before he seems to hesitate further, his eyes dropping down to John’s mouth, and a hint of colour sneaking across his normally pale cheeks.

“John –”

Whatever Sherlock was going to say is cut off by something that sounds like a crashing noise from upstairs, and the elation in John’s body whiplashes over to concern so quickly it’s almost painful. Sherlock’s hand is already gone off his face, and John takes a moment to silently curse everything in the entire damn world as he and Sherlock head for the stairs, making it up them in record time to find –

Castiel curled up on the floor of John’s bedroom, with Dean more or less wrapped around his body, and the bed completely overturned, a mess of wood and blankets and pillows. Castiel is shaking, visibly shaking, and the expression on Dean’s face is a level of desperation that John can understand clear as anything, the first time he’s been able to get a true read on the guy. 

“Goddammit – Cas, buddy, you’ve gotta listen – you’ve gotta hear me, come on. You know my voice. We’ve been through this. Fight it, breathe through it. Count your breaths, and focus on me. My voice, my body, my damn soul – whatever you can anchor to. I’m here, alright?”

Dean’s voice is shaking nearly as bad as Castiel’s body, and then Castiel makes a whimpering sound, the noise sounding like it’s come from an injured animal, but John has no idea what’s going on, has no idea why there’s an angel in pain on his bedroom floor, and he certainly has no idea how to help.

“Come on, Cas – you know me. Here –” And then Dean is grabbing Castiel’s hand, shoving it hard against his own chest, over his heart, and putting his own hand on it. “Come on, Cas. I’m real. Concentrate on me. You know me –”

“Dean,” Castiel rasps suddenly, his eyes screwing even tighter shut as his fingers scrabble against Dean’s chest – and then, with a final shudder, Castiel stops shaking and curls in on himself, his entire body seeming to go limp in a way that doesn’t look healthy at all. There’s nothing but Dean’s ragged breathing for a long moment, and then he’s rolling Castiel’s body off his knees and climbing to his feet with a quiet groan, not quite looking at them as he straightens out his jeans.

“Cas’ll put the bed back later.”

And then Dean is turning to the mess of broken bed and destroyed sheets, turning back with a pillow to stick underneath Castiel’s head, and a blanket to throw over top of him. Once that’s done – with Castiel not moving the entire time – Dean straightens up and swallows hard, and John is aware that he and Sherlock are both staring rather rudely, but he can’t seem to make himself stop.

“Alright, yeah – long story. Let’s – back downstairs, and keep the movements slow and quiet, alright?”

Dean jerks his head at the door, wiping a swear of blood on the back of his hand, something visibly haunted in his eyes as glances down at Castiel one last time, and then John is nodding and following Sherlock out of the room, aware of Dean’s footsteps behind him for the entire trip back to the living room. Once they get back down there, John turns to Dean and opens his mouth on a question, but Dean shakes his head curtly, eyes snapping up to the clock.

“Storytime’s gonna have to wait. Sam’s not answering his phone. And he should have been back by now.”

“We’re coming with you.”

A quick glance at Sherlock confirms John’s words, the slight nod in response, but Dean shakes his head again, barely looking at them as he heads for the kitchen, pulling a couple of water bottles out of his rucksack.

“Too dangerous.”

“We’re not useless, you know.”

“I don’t work with amateurs.”

“Look, alright – demons might be new to us, sure. But we’re not naive. You could use us. I’m a soldier and a doctor, and Sherlock’s the smartest man you’ll ever meet.”

“Is that so?”

Dean still is barely looking at them, too busy checking the salt lines on the windows, his bag thrown down by the main doorway – and when John opens his mouth to argue again, there’s the sudden press of a hand against the bottom of his back, and he loses his words on the wave of heat that shoots through him. Sherlock is suddenly quite close, has moved to stand beside him, and all John can do is swallow hard, not even bothering to fight the pulse of want that attempts to spread out across his skin, because now _he doesn’t have to_ , and that knowledge is enough to make his knees weak.

“Yes. I am. And John’s right. You could use us.”

“I don’t –”

“You need me to prove it?”

“Buddy, I really don’t give a damn –”

“I know that Sam is your brother, and that Castiel is your lover.”

Dean isn’t the only one who goes completely still at the words, freezing in the action of bending to get something out of his rucksack. John distantly realizes that he’s full on gaping, his mouth actually hanging open, but based on the way Dean’s face has gone an interesting shade of red, and because when Sherlock says something, then it must be true – then, just, wow. Dean and Castiel. Dean, sleeping with an angel. A male angel. That… that one, John had not seen coming.

“How the fuck could you even –”

“I observe. I use my brain. I also know how to analyse a situation and figure out the best ways to navigate it. Between my intellect and your knowledge of the supernatural, we would be a viable threat to any demon. And John’s stubbornness and loyalty are not weapons that you want to be leave at home when you’re going into battle.”

The words send a wave of warmth across John’s skin, and although Sherlock delivers them with what seems like perfect impassivity, his hand is still pressed lightly against John’s back, the fingers shifting slightly in a movement that John feels across his entire body, and it’s suddenly taking everything John has to pay attention to the man in front of them, who’s scowling at them and looking generally displeased with the entire situation.

“Alright, you with your big damn intellect. Can you read Latin?”

“Of course.”

“Then you carry the exorcism rite, and you be damn well ready to spew it out when I say so. And I’m gonna give ya both a thing of holy water – yeah, it’s exactly what it sounds like – because it’s like acid to demons. If one gets close, douse the fucker. We can come up with a better plan once I’ve seen the actual building.”

Dean walks out the door without stopping for either of them to say a word, carefully stepping around the paint on the floor to avoid smudging the lines, and then John’s left staring after him. Sherlock, standing beside him, removes his hand from John’s back, and John does his best to not press backwards in an effort to keep it there.

“You’d best find your medical kit. We may have need of it.”

Sherlock’s voice is low and tinted with audible warmth, now that Dean is no longer in the room, and John breathes through the sudden flipping of his stomach as he turns to face Sherlock again. Sherlock meets his eyes without flinching, but John thinks he can see tiny hints of uncertainty still lurking on the edges in his expression, and the last thing he wants right now – as they make plans to go into a possible den of demons – is for Sherlock to think, even for a second, that John might ever change his mind about this.

“We’re good, Sherlock. More than good, if you’re sure about this.”

“I’m sure.”

Sherlock is still staring at him, the same way he’s done so many times before, but this time there’s so much more there, a new promise in his eyes that John can barely even believe he’s seeing, and John can’t seem to stop the heat that’s building across his body, the way his legs no longer seem to be holding quite steady beneath him.

“Sherlock –”

A car horn blasts through the apartment, followed by the sound of Dean yelling at them from the bottom of the stairs, and John stares at Sherlock for a second longer before he reluctantly moves away, heading across the apartment to grab his medical kit, and feeling Sherlock’s eyes on him the entire time. They can do this – can go save Sam, and be Mycroft’s knights in shining armour – and then they can come back here, and… and explore this further, whatever this is.

Sherlock’s intense gaze suddenly slips into his mind again, and John doesn’t quite manage to hold back a shiver. He knows there are still important things to worry about – things like demons and deals and holy water and exorcisms – but with this new realization that Sherlock wants him in return, all the insanity in their lives somehow seems just a little bit easier to deal with.

\- - -

“That’s your brother’s idea of a house?”

“Mycroft has a certain need for theatrics.”

“So I see.”

Sherlock, Dean and John are crouched behind a bush on the edge of Mycroft’s lawn, staring at the towering white building. John has a moment of marvelling at what he’s going into battle with – he’s got a small selection of medical supplies strapped onto his belt, but there’s a giant bottle of holy water in his hand, instead of a gun – and the surreal feeling only increases as he watches Sherlock glance down at the exorcism ritual he’s got in his hand, holding a bottle of holy water in the other.

“This will send a demon back to Hell?”

“If you can get it out before the demon guts ya, then yes.”

Dean’s eyes are on the house as he speaks, his gaze tracking across every inch of it, and John watches as he checks his phone again, his face tightening a little further at the apparent lack of message of Sam. Shifting a bit, feeling the damp dirt begin to press through the knees of his jeans, John finds himself wondering, again, what the story is behind Dean and his brother, and how this came to be the life they seem to lead.

“I am familiar with my brother’s surveillance system. There is not an inch of space in that building – and on the surrounding lawn – that isn’t watched.”

“So what’s your brilliant idea, then?”

“One of my colleagues has an acquaintance at the local electrical company whom can be blackmailed into shutting down power to this sector. She knew what he liked, so to speak, and it shall now act as rather damning currency against him.”

Sherlock doesn’t quite look at John as he delivers the news, and John knows he’s gaping, knows he’s staring in a way that’s got to be quite unattractive, but he can’t quite seem to close his jaw.

“Irene Adler is alive? But –”

“Yes, she is alive, and I will tell you how later. For now, I only need send her the final confirmation, and she will inform her acquaintance to remove power from this sector of the city – along with several other sectors, so as to spread out the ensuing police and government response. Once this building has been stripped of its electricity, it will take Mycroft’s back-up generators three minutes and thirty seven seconds to reach full capacity – a fact that has caused him no small amount of unhappiness, I assure you. It is not much of a window, but three minutes should allow us to get to the main control room, where you two can provide protection for me. We will wait for the surveillance system to come back on, so as to locate our brothers, and then I will permanently disable the system, and we can then secure Mycroft and Sam.”

“That’s… quite a solid plan, actually.”

Dean seems as much surprised as he is impressed, as though – until now – he hadn’t believed that Sherlock would be anything but a liability, and Sherlock’s lips twitch up just slightly at the corners in response. Something, though, isn’t quite sitting well with John, and damn his annoying conscience.

“So we’re gonna blackmail some poor sod at the electricity company?”

“If my brother is taken by the demons, there will be serious consequences for the British government. As incompetent as our government is, I would prefer it to not be controlled by demons.”

“But –”

“If it soothes your conscience, Irene is going to help this acquaintance of hers clear his tracks at the company. Nobody will ever know it was him.”

That’s… somewhat reassuring, actually, and when Sherlock raises his phone and arches his eyebrows in question, John nods, and Sherlock’s thumb presses down on the send key. They wait in silence, then, nothing but the steady sound of their own breathing, John feeling his nerves string a little bit tighter with each passing minute – and then, like a wave of darkness, every light in the area goes out, leaving the only light around them the light from the moon.

“Alright,” he hears Dean whisper, just barely visible in the darkness, “I’m going first. John, behind me. Once we get inside, switch it up to put Sherlock in the middle, so he can give me directions. Let’s go.”

And then Dean is gone, and John clutches tight to the holy water in his hand and follows, ducking down and following as Dean seems to cling to the darkest shadows he can find. The moon’s not that bright, but it’s still brighter than John would have liked, and he half expects a bullet to tear into him as they run across the law. It’s only when they reach the door that he allows himself to take a deep and steadying breath, and then Sherlock is all but pushed up against him in the dark, his front pressed against John’s back.

“The black-out should have disabled the security system. You don’t need the pass code.”

Dean had been hovering in front of the door, and John can just see him nod as he pushes the door open, and then they’re in, all three of them, and Sherlock pushes himself in between Dean and John, and John can hear him begin to murmur directions as they move forward. He tries to keep track of them in his head, is pretty sure he knows which way they’re going, but his main concern is tracking the darkness for anything that looks like movement. It’s only when they reach the computer control room, and Sherlock is standing by the computers, leaving Dean and John to stand guard by the door, that John feels his face crease into a frown. He’s gone into battle often enough to recognize when something doesn’t feel right, and this… something’s off here.

“We should have met someone by now.”

“I know.”

Dean’s voice is short and clipped, and John does his best to not grind his teeth together as he glances from the door to Sherlock, who’s all but vibrating in front of the dark computer screens, his bottle of holy water just visible as it sits on the edge of the desk. John can hear him counting to himself, literally counting down the seconds, and then suddenly the lights and computers come to life again, leaving John blinking against the sudden brightness.

“There. Mycroft and Sam are both being held in the northern most corner room, on the second floor. There are three people with them.”

“Fine. Now disable those –”

Dean doesn’t get a chance to finish, because Sherlock is already crawling under the table, the flash of a knife showing in his hand. In about five seconds, the screens go completely dark again, and John watches as Sherlock crawls out from under the tables again, slipping the knife back into his pocket and pulling out the exorcism rite instead.

“And here I was expecting some genius computer thing.”

Dean doesn’t take his eyes from the outside hallway as he speaks, and Sherlock doesn’t look at him, either, too busy grabbing the bottle of holy water from the table, holding it in one hand and the exorcism rite in the other.

“Cutting the cables was quicker.”

Sherlock’s already moving, coming to stand beside John and Dean, and all three of them end up leaning out the doorway, staring down the brightly lit hall. There’s still no hint of movement – nothing at all – and from the look on Sherlock’s face, he is just as unimpressed as Dean and John.

“We should have encountered resistance.”

“Yeah. Bit late to worry about that now. Let’s go get our brothers, and you two keep your hands on that holy water.”

Sherlock makes a noise that doesn’t sound at all happy, and then they’re off again, single file down the hallway, with Sherlock in the middle again, giving Dean directions, and it can’t take them more than two minutes to make it to the right room. There’s still not a hint of resistance the entire time, and John’s about ready to claw off his skin in frustration, even as Dean turns to them with an equally unimpressed expression. 

“Alright. John, you and I are responsible for covering Sherlock. We go first. Sherlock, start with that exorcism as soon as we get in the room.”

Dean barely gives them time to nod before he pushes open the door, and Sherlock’s spitting out Latin behind them, even as John tears into the room to find Dean launching himself at one of the men, the knife flashing as it sinks into his shoulder. There’s no time to watch, though, because John is already throwing water on the woman standing beside Mycroft, his skin strung tight as he waits for something to happen –

But there’s nothing. And, beside him, Dean is being kicked to the ground, the demon pulling Dean’s knife out of his shoulder, carelessly throwing it down on the ground beside him. Dean scrambles to pick it up again, getting up onto his knees, but Sam is shouting something from where he’s tied to a chair, and Sherlock’s voice is faltering, and John’s suddenly backhanded onto the ground so hard the room starts to spin around him. When it begins to right itself again, Sherlock is down on the ground with a woman standing over him, and Dean is back on his feet, shoving the knife into his pocket, and pulling out something that looks like a tiny spray bottle.

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.”

John distantly processes the incredulity in Dean’s voice, barely able to hear anything through the ringing in his ears, and then Dean is launching himself at the woman, spraying her in the face with whatever’s in the bottle – but even as she screams she twists her body sharply, and Dean flies off her and lands sprawled out beside Sherlock, who’s already scrambling for the bottle that’s flown out of Dean’s hand. John lifts up his hand just in time to catch it, the bottle arcing from Sherlock to him, and John doesn’t know what’s going on, but he tries to turn the bottle on the man – and then finds himself back down on the ground again, the second woman sending him crashing to the knees with a single blow against his shoulder.

“Well, aren’t you a tenacious little thing, doctor.”

John just barely hears the words, and then there’s what seems to be a very long silence. When he cautiously lifts his head from the floor, it’s to find Sherlock balancing on his knees, and Dean standing beside him with an expression that’s gone completely devoid of colour. Behind the man, John can just make out the sight of both Mycroft and Sam tied to chairs, Mycroft with a dark bruise colouring his cheek.

“A Borax spray bottle. Cute, Winchester.”

The woman who had knocked John down leans to pick up the bottle, and then chucks it across the room, landing it in the corner. Even as John watches, sudden fear sweeping across his body at the realization that their plan seems to have been completely derailed, the other woman’s face begins to reform itself, changing from a mangled mess to a normal human face again.

“Who would have ever guessed. I came here looking for the Holmes brothers, and I get the Winchesters as well. My boss is going to be ever so pleased with me. You’ve been giving him such trouble over in America.”

The one standing beside John is the one speaking, and he shakes his head as he tries to clear it, his eyes cutting to Sherlock, who’s watching the woman with an expression of such frustration it almost hurts to look at. Beside Sherlock, Dean looks ready to start clawing into these creatures – whatever they are – with only his fingernails, his eyes never shifting away from the woman who seems to be the ringleader.

“You okay, Sammy?”

“Yeah, I’m okay.”

Sam sounds just as angry as Dean, but there’s something else there – something that sounds like bravery in the face of impossible odds, as though he knows that, whatever they’ve stumbled into, it’s too big to fight. John’s been a solider long enough to recognize it, and he can’t quite the wave of helplessness that sweeps across his body, squeezing his lungs too tight in his chest.

“And what, exactly, did you want from Sherlock and I?”

Mycroft’s voice cuts sharply through the room, his customary composure replaced by an audible anger that seems to lace every word, and a small smirk spreads across the ringleader woman’s face.

“Haven’t you guessed? You more or less run the British government, my dear. Some people – such as yourself – simply cannot be duplicated, which means we need you alive. And the best way to ensure your cooperation is to start cutting off your little brother’s fingers, one by one.”

John fights down the violent surge of nausea, the wave of blind panic. Still kneeling on the floor beside Dean, Sherlock’s face goes a shade of white that John’s never seen on anyone before, and it takes everything John has stay where he is, to keep himself from starting to claw at the woman standing beside him.

“Kill the doctor. Then bring the Winchesters and the Holmes boys to me. I have such delicious fun planned for all four of you.”

She turns and walks out the door, aiming a final smirk in Dean’s direction, and after a second of silence Sherlock is scrambling to his feet again even as Dean springs backwards, aiming for spray bottle in the corner, the male monster following after him with what sounds like a laugh. John barely has time to get to his own feet before he’s being spun around, one of the creatures pulling him against her even as her mouth tips back and – and all John can see is teeth, teeth and tongue and he hears himself yelling as he tries to pull away, tries to put his fist into her throat, tries to hit her anywhere he can reach – 

He doesn’t realize he’s hit the floor until he’s on it, Sherlock sprawled out on top of the woman, fists flying everywhere – and then Sherlock is hitting the floor, hard, and the woman is balanced over top of him, her mouth still open, and _no, Sherlock, please no –_

“Sherlock!”

He’s back on his knees, his hands sinking into the creature’s shoulders to pull her backwards – just in time to be knocked over as someone else barrels into the woman, a flash of trench coat and limbs and fists – and then Castiel is across the room, grabbing hold of Dean and vanishing, appearing again to grab Sam and Mycroft before they all vanish, and then it’s just John and Sherlock in the room, lying on the floor beside each other, staring up at the two creatures as they turn towards them, mouths still open – 

A flutter of feathers, a flash of coat, and Castiel is suddenly in between them, a hand on each of their shoulders. Next thing John is aware of, the entire world is suddenly spinning around him, slowly solidifying to bring in the unfathomable sight of trees around them, moonlight making it just possible to see – and John feels his knees go out from underneath him even as Castiel crashes into a nearby tree, wood cracking and splintering through the air as the angel smashes off the tree and lands on the ground, unmoving. John wants to get up and do something to help, wants to go to Castiel, thank him from the bottom of his very soul for the rescue – but his legs don’t seem ready to move yet, and then suddenly Sherlock is on the ground with him, his arms wrapped tight around John’s body and his face pressed in hard against the curve of John’s neck, and all John can do is cling right back and hold on as tight as he can, both of them shaking so hard it almost hurts.


	4. Chapter 4

It can’t be more than five seconds before Sherlock is pulling away from him, his wild expression just barely visible in the moonlight, and his hands coming up to cradle John’s cheeks, his fingers dancing along the skin of his face.

“John –”

“I’m alright, Sherlock – I –”

And then John gives up on speaking because there are soft lips pressed against his forehead, Sherlock making an almost hurt noise as his mouth makes contact with his skin, and all John can do is breathe out sharply and close his eyes, his body flashing hot and cold as he digs his fingers into Sherlock’s back and just holds on. He barely has time to start breathing again before Sherlock is pulling away to stare at him, eyes wide in the barely there light, and then Sherlock is turning away and scrambling across the ground, hands landing on the angel’s shoulders as he stares down at him.

“Castiel – Castiel, are you – can you hear me?”

There’s no hint of response – no words, no movement – and John has just managed to get his legs working again, managed to get himself across the ground and kneeled down next to Sherlock, when Sherlock leans down to press his ear against Castiel’s chest, and John reaches out to cup a hand underneath his mouth, trying to ignore the way his entire forehead is tingling.

“He – he’s breathing.”

“And his heart is beating.”

“But I don’t even – I mean, he’s an _angel_ – do angels even need to breathe?”

Sherlock doesn’t seem to have a response, and suddenly he’s glancing around him, his eyes still a little wild, and climbing to his feet.

“Do you – anything. Salt, holy water –”

“Lost it all.”

“Alright. Don’t move.”

And then Sherlock’s reaching into his coat pocket and pulling out a tiny bag, the movements visible in the too-bright-moonlight, now that John really thinks about it – too bright, enough to light up the forest around them – and then Sherlock is dragging a line of salt along the ground, in front of John and Castiel and then back around the tree that Castiel had smashed into, and then Sherlock is in the circle himself, almost seeming to vibrate as he stands in place.

“There – that’s – that is something, at least.”

“But those other monsters – those weren’t –”

“No. Not demons.”

“And what about Dean and Sam and Mycroft?”

When Sherlock doesn’t seem to have a response for that, either, the words get swallowed up by the darkness around him, and John can’t quite help the shudder that runs down the length of his spine. Underneath his hands, Castiel is warm and breathing, but he’s obviously damaged himself, somehow – and John and Sherlock have no holy water and no exorcism rites – only one tiny line of salt, enough to make John weak with gratitude, but if that’s all that’s going to protect them if some kind of monster comes looking, then that’s still far from a comforting thought.

“Here – cell phone. Give me it.”

“But – why –”

John’s already moving even as he asks the question, pulling out his phone and tossing it to Sherlock, who catches it even in the dark, and then he’s pulling out his own phone and dropping them both to the ground, picking up a rock and unceremoniously smashing it down on top of them.

“Whatever those things are, I would rather not make it unduly easy for them to find me.”

Sherlock sounds angry enough to start scratching off his own skin, but there’s an audible hint of fear in the words, too, something that twists itself inside John and makes him want to reach out and hold him tight, and when Sherlock kneels down in front of John again, John finds himself curling his hands around the edges of Sherlock’s elbows. Sherlock goes still against the touch, for a brief second, before he exhales sharply and leans a little closer to John, still feeling like he’s almost vibrating in place.

“John –”

“C’mon, Sherlock. Might as well get comfy. We could be here awhile.”

He’s not quite sure how he manages to make the words come out calm, but he somehow does, somehow manages to think past the adrenaline still screaming along his skin, and then he’s leaning back against the tree that Castiel had crashed into, letting it hold him up in a seated position; and Sherlock hesitates for a moment longer before he goes with the movement, sitting down beside John with their shoulders pressed up against each other. There’s silence, then, the forest utterly motionless around them, and as John tries to breathe through the fear that’s still doing its best to make him shake, as he sits there and listen to Sherlock’s quiet breathing, he somehow cannot seem to fight the urge that tells him to slide his hand down and slip his fingers around Sherlock’s.

“Is this – alright?”

Sherlock’s breathing seems to have stopped, no longer any sound of it in the silent darkness, and then Sherlock exhales slowly and laces their fingers even tighter together, his body relaxing in slow increments against John’s. John feels the touch straight through his entire arm, closes his eyes and lets it bring him a measure of calm, and then he’s glancing around the dark forest, further details starting to come to him, now that he’s able to breathe again – the dampness of the air around them, like there’s a storm coming; the cold earth underneath their bodies; the smell of pine needles and leaves and soil. Where they are, he has no idea, but he can only hope that it’s somewhere far off the beaten track, where those monsters – whatever they are – can’t find them.

“Do you – could you sleep? I can keep an eye out.”

“I hardly think I should leave you on your own.” 

“It’s fine, Sherlock. Really. You were up all night. We’re gonna need your brain tomorrow.”

“Can’t sleep sitting up.”

“Salt circle’s big enough. You could, um. Use my legs as a pillow. If you want.”

Sherlock says nothing for a long moment, and the silence is absolutely impossible to interpret in the darkness. Just as John begins to find himself wishing desperately that he could see Sherlock’s face, Sherlock sighs softly and shifts beside him, though his fingers don’t slide out of John’s.

“If you’re –”

“I’m sure.”

“I – alright.”

Then Sherlock’s fingers are gone, but John can’t even miss them for long, because Sherlock’s lying out on the ground, the movements hesitant even in the dark; and when he finally ends up stretched out on his side, it takes him a moment longer to rest his head against John’s thigh, and John can’t help but close his eyes at the wave of warmth that washes up his body. It’s ridiculous, really – that in the middle of all this, with their lives very much on the line, he can still feel something like lust – but apparently he’s only human, because as Sherlock settles down against him, John’s body begins to burn almost as much as his heart begins to tighten in his chest.

“You, um. You gonna be good there?”

His voice’s definitely not quite as steady as he would have liked, and he loses the ability to form words at all when, instead of answering the question, Sherlock simply slides a hand along his body to seek out John’s once again, their fingers curling tight together in the darkness. At that, John concedes defeat and stops trying to talk at all, his heart kicking it up a notch in his chest as he tilts his head back against the tree behind him, closing his eyes and hoping that the feeling of Sherlock’s body against his own will chase away some of the demons for a while.

\- - -

The next few hours are the longest night of John’s life.

Castiel doesn’t move the entire time, and Sherlock is silent save for his steady breathing, his fingers slowly relaxing their hold on John’s hand as he drifts off to sleep. John holds on tight even when Sherlock stops gripping back, and he does his best to blank out his mind – tries to not think about demons, or monsters, or the fact that Castiel is unconscious, or that Dean and the others could be absolutely anywhere right now. His eyes never once close the entire night, too busy scanning the dark forest for any signs of movement, and by the sun slowly starts to creep its dim light across the trees, John could almost cry with how grateful he is.

It’s a matter, then, of watching the sun slowly brighten the area around him, shadows and streaks of light falling in patterns across Sherlock’s face and body, and he eventually gives up on trying to pretend that he’s not staring at Sherlock, who’s sprawled out with his eyes tightly shut and his hair a ridiculous mess across the curve of John’s leg. There’s still seems to be a level of tension to him, though, as though even in sleep, he can’t manage to shut off his mind completely – but he looks softer, somehow, a little less sharp around the edges, and John doesn’t realize just how blatantly he’s staring until Sherlock’s eyes begin to blink open, and then John can’t stop himself from tensing up a bit, as though he’s been caught doing something he wasn’t supposed to.

“Um. Good morning.”

Sherlock stares back at him for a long moment, the glaze of sleep slowly slipping away from his eyes – and then, incredibly, a hint of colour sneaks across his face, and his eyes skip away to stare somewhere over John’s shoulder. John can’t help but suck in a sharp breath, a wave of arousal suddenly burning hot across his body, and he clears his throat, slightly, hoping that his own skin isn’t as flushed as it feels.

“Not a peep, all night. Not from around us, and not from Castiel.”

“No sign of the others?”

“No. Maybe… maybe Castiel crash landed here, or something. I dunno.”

“The thought had occurred.”

Sherlock’s voice sounds deeper than normal, words rough with sleep, and then his fingers are clutching tight around John’s own, where they’re still pressed in against John’s palm, the way they had been the entire night. It’s more difficult, somehow, to do this in the light of day, and Sherlock can’t quite seem to meet his eyes – but he hasn’t moved his head from John’s leg yet, and he doesn’t seem to be in any hurry to do so. It comes to John, suddenly, that they seem to have gotten the steps wrong, switched up a couple of them along the way – that, perhaps, they both stumbled into this relationship without even realizing they were there – and now, with the world falling down around them, John has no idea where they’re meant to go next.

“John?”

“Mmm.”

“What I said. Before, in the kitchen. I meant it.”

It’s like the words seem to seep out across his skin and make a home for themselves. John realizes he’s more or less stopped breathing, and Sherlock still isn’t looking at him, his eyes fixed somewhere in front of him, even though his face is resting against John’s thigh and his fingers are curled into John’s own. It’s like – the air seems to tighten around them, and the exhaustion suddenly slides from John’s body, leaving him shaking a bit because – this, here. This feels like this could be where they’re supposed to go next, and John can’t help but lick his lips, fear swooping low in his belly as he takes a chance and strokes a finger across the ridge of one of Sherlock’s knuckles.

“I, uh. I meant it, too.”

And then he just stops, his brain apparently blank of anything coherent to say; and something like frustration seems to flash across Sherlock’s face before he suddenly pulls his hand from John’s and climbs up onto his knees, kneeling beside John and staring at him with the same intensity he normally directs to whatever project he’s working on, and jesus, being on the end of the stare will never not be overwhelming.

“John – this isn’t – I don’t _do_ this. I’ve never – there has never been –”

Sherlock Holmes, lost for words, and John doesn’t realize how badly he’s trembling until Sherlock shifts a bit closer, his eyes skittering down from John’s eyes to his mouth and down the entire length of his body before returning to his face again. There seems to be a question there, something just visible underneath the frustration, and this is – this is insane, that here, next to an unconscious angel and stranded in the middle of some desolate forest, this is apparently finally happening, and John finds himself climbing up on his knees without really thinking about it, his mouth trying to form around words.

“Yeah, Sherlock – this is – this is good, I meant it, too –”

“Can I –”

“Yes. Whatever it is, yes, you –”

And then John loses the ability to breathe, let alone speak, as gentle lips press against his own – and it’s like having a jar of kerosene lit on fire in his veins, like having everything sliding into place all at once, like finally coming home – and John only starts to breathe again when careful hands come up to cradle his face, Sherlock’s mouth moving slow and hesitant against his own, and John can barely keep his knees upright underneath him. He distantly realizes he’s curled his fingers into the front of Sherlock’s coat, that he’s pressing himself as close as he can get, and then Sherlock makes a bitten off noise against his mouth, a hint of teeth coming out to scrape across John’s bottom lip, and the noise that slips from John’s throat gets caught in the warmth of Sherlock’s mouth.

It ends as quickly as it began, Sherlock pulling back with a sharp exhale that John feels across his entire body, and then they’re left staring at each other, Sherlock’s eyes blown wide and bright in his face, colour sneaking across the arches of his cheekbones, and his fingers still curled around John’s cheeks – and then John is kissing him again, can’t seem to help it. Wants Sherlock’s lips back against his own, wants that feeling of rightness and completeness, wants the way his body seems to be catching fire from the inside out, and when Sherlock breathes out the tiniest hint of a groan into John’s mouth, his fingers tightening slightly against the skin of his cheeks, John wants nothing more than to do this every day until he dies.

Suddenly, though, there’s a low moan that comes from someone who’s neither of them, Castiel shifting slightly on the ground beside them, and John slowly slides their lips apart, every inch of him screaming with reluctance. Kneeling in front of him, Sherlock’s eyes are shut, his mouth slightly open and his breathing coming ragged, and John feels a new rush of heat rush him as he raises a hand to press it against the fingers that are still curled against his cheek.

“Sherlock.”

His voice is rough and barely there, and it seems to take Sherlock a moment to get his eyes open again. When he does, he just stares at John, something like wonder sneaking along the edges of his expression – and then he’s dragging their hands down from John’s cheek to curl together on top of his knees, the simple movement sending a jolt of contentment out across John’s body, even as they both turn to watch Castiel’s eyes begin to flutter open. 

“Welcome back.”

John still can’t quite manage to get his voice back to normal, his vocal chords all tangled up in the want that’s still burning its way across his skin, and then Castiel is sitting up so suddenly it’s a wonder he doesn’t hurt himself, his trench coat spilling out beside him as his eyes skitter somewhat wildly across the forest around them.

“Where are – I was attempting to locate our safe house.”

“Hey, it’s okay, you –

“I seem to have… misjudged, slightly.”

“Please, Castiel. You saved our lives. I just – thank you, from both of us.”

Sherlock silently nods beside him, and it’s all still horribly inadequate – John isn’t even sure what you’re supposed to say to the angel who’s not only saved your life, but who’s also saved the most important person in your life from being slowly tortured to death – but Castiel simply stares at them for a moment before he nods, as though he does understand just how thankful they are.

“You’re welcome. And now we must find Dean and Sam.”

He doesn’t even bother to climb to his feet – simply raises his hands, a question in the gesture, and when Sherlock nods again, Castiel’s fingers touch down on each of their foreheads – and there’s that insane sensation, again, of the entire world dissolving and then solidifying around him. John stumbles a bit as unfamiliar walls come into view around him, and then Dean is pushing past him and heading straight for Castiel, his hands curling into the front of the angel’s trench coat.

“Sonuvabitch, Cas, you crazy insane bastard –”

“I’m fine – Dean, I’m fine – we’re all fine –”

“I was about to start fucking walking.”

“While I appreciate the sentiment, I believe it would take you several days to reach London.”

“Well, I’d have got there, eventually. Fuck, we thought you hadn’t made it out of there alive.”

The world has stopped spinning around John, mostly, and he watches in silence as Dean and Castiel start in on a staring contest that seems to involve both of them looking at each other as though they can see straight through to each other’s souls. After a long moment, Dean exhales sharply and steps back, though his hand is still in the front of Castiel’s trench coat.

“You and Sam and I need to talk. He’s outside painting devil’s traps. C’mon.”

Dean glances briefly over at John before he goes stomping out the door, Castiel following after him, and John drags his eyes away to sweep his gaze across the tiny room, taking in the basics of his surroundings – cobwebs and peeling wallpaper and nails sticking out of the floor, a rusty old stove in the corner, and some truly filthy looking cracked countertops and cupboards. Next to the stove, Mycroft is standing with his arms folded across his chest, looking incredibly displeased with everything in his current existence.

“Sherlock. Glad to see you’re still breathing.”

“Mycroft. It seems you have a slight monster infestation problem.”

“Indeed. Sam and Dean have agreed to help me. I hear you have a little problem of your own.”

“Apparently so.”

“Well, I would normally stay and assist you, but I must look to defending my government.”

Somehow, Mycroft still manages to sound haughty and in-control, even with his suit torn and a bruise spreading blue and black across his cheek – and for all that John still hasn’t quite managed to forgive him for ratting out Sherlock, he can grudgingly recognize that there’s probably nobody better suited to find a way to insulate the British government against those monsters. 

“You’ll have quite the battle ahead of you.”

“This from the man who believes he can break a contract with Hell.”

It’s almost surreal, being in the middle of a sibling fight under these circumstances, but John thinks he can hear something, there, hiding underneath Mycroft’s customary composure – something that sounds like true concern bleeding through, something that sounds a little cracked and rough around the edges, and it’s obvious that Sherlock hears it, too, because the lines on his face only draw a bit tighter, as though he has no idea how to deal with something other than their customary animosity. 

“I assume you’re planning some kind of underground resistance?”

“Among other things, yes.”

“And I suppose you require my assistance.”

“No, Sherlock. For now, the best way you can assist me is by staying right here. Those creatures want you, and I cannot protect my government if I am not sure that you are safe.”

“Honestly, Mycroft –”

“Do not mistake practically for sentiment. I simply do not fancy attempting to retain state secrets while I watch those creatures carve the skin from your bones.”

John feels the words like a punch to the stomach, and from the slight twist of Sherlock’s lips, John’s not the only one fighting a sudden bout of nausea. Mycroft’s face is close to impassive, but whatever he might say, there’s still that audible hint of concern there, and John watches as Sherlock’s expression becomes even less impressed than before.

“Fine. And what is it, exactly, that we’re fighting?”

“I’ll let Dean do the explaining. For now, if Castiel is up to it – I need to return to London. Sam has agreed to come with me, to explain the basics of fighting these things. And Dean, apparently, is going to find some miraculous way to break your contracts with Hell.” 

“You disapprove of us making our deals.”

“You have both sold your souls to Hell. What do you expect me to say?”

“John’s alive. I’m alive.”

“Indeed you are. But at what cost?”

“As long as they’re both breathing, they’ve still got a damn good chance.”

Dean’s voice cuts through the conversation so sharply that John jumps – he hadn’t even realized that Dean was back in the room – and then he turns to find Dean leaning up against the wall by the front door, his arms crossed in front of him, and Castiel standing beside him. The angel looks less exhausted than before, his eyes more alert and his trench coat hanging a little less limp around him, and Dean is scowling at Mycroft as though Mycroft has personally offended him.

“I did not mean to imply –”

“Save it, buddy. You might be the British government, but I really couldn’t give a crap. Family sticks with family, and the last thing Sherlock needs right now is you reading him the riot act.”

“I simply do not wish to see him go to Hell.”

“That makes all of us. Don’t see the rest of us being jerks about it, though.”

Dean pushes himself off the wall as the words come out, still scowling at Mycroft the entire time, and when Mycroft almost seems to puff up with indignation, John can feel – miracle of all miracles, given the circumstances – the tiniest hint of a smile tugging at the corner of his lips. Standing beside him, he watches Sherlock’s own face twitch with something that looks like amusement, but then Dean’s eyes are cutting to Castiel, and the severity in his eyes quickly drains away any humour from the scene.

“You’re sure you’re up to doing some flying?”

“Yes.”

“Good. Alrightie, then, government guy. Time to hop onboard angel airlines.”

John watches as Mycroft’s lips press a little bit tighter together at that, but then Sam is walking back into the building, dropping a can of spray paint onto a peeling old chair, and when Mycroft silently goes to stand beside him, Castiel walks over to join both of them. The end result is John and Sherlock standing on the other the side of the room with Dean, while Castiel reaches out to put his hands on Sam and Mycroft’s shoulders, though his eyes never stray from where Dean is leaned up against the wall.

“Dean –”

“I expect both of you back here by tomorrow evening. Got it?”

“Got it.”

It’s Sam who speaks, this time, his voice sounding a little rougher than normal, and then there’s a flutter of feathers and Castiel is gone, taking Sam and Mycroft with him, and then Dean’s turning to face John and Sherlock, an unreadable expression on his face.

“Alright. This is gonna be quick, cause I was up all night. We’re somewhere north of the city – no electricity, but the well outside is fit for drinking, there’s a river if ya need a bath, and I dug a latrine behind the house. We scoped this place out and stocked it up before we came to London – we’ve got two rooms upstairs, and one right off this room. As for those things at your brother’s – they’re ancient monsters that got free from Purgatory. Leviathans. They can make themselves look like anyone they touch, though – apparently – if someone’s got a particularly dynamic mind, or some such shit, that person can’t be copied. We haven’t yet figured out how to kill ’em, but borax hurts ’em, and they can be decapitated, as long as you keep the head away from the body, so it doesn’t reattach. Oh, and they eat humans, and are currently infiltrating every level of the global corporate ladder, in an attempt to take over the planet. Anything else?”

“Yes. Why did a demon wish to provide me as bait?”

Sherlock’s voice isn’t quite as steady as it would normally be, but John isn’t sure how Sherlock’s even still making words happen at all, given that John’s own mind seems to have gotten a little stuck at the word ‘Purgatory’, at the idea of those things running rampant across the planet and taking control of all the global corporate giants.

“Our working theory is that war’s brewing between the demons and leviathans. If some of the demons are defecting, providing you as bait could have earned some brownie points with the chompers.”

“Lovely.”

“Yeah. Now, unless there’s anything ya need, there’s a bed upstairs that’s calling my name. Bed in the next room over is all yours. This place has been demon-proofed, and there’s borax and salt and holy water over on the counter, next to the canned beans and toilet paper. Once I get some rest, we’ll work on your little demon problem, but if you wake me up before this afternoon, I’ll kill you myself. Got it?”

There’s more exhaustion than anything else in Dean’s voice, and John can easily imagine him sitting up all night, waiting for Castiel to get back – and if Sam and Dean and Castiel have been fighting these leviathans for any given amount of time, then it’s no wonder they all seem so rundown.

“I understand. But – Dean. Before you go. Situations like this must have lore. Demons, leviathans – and I’m assuming any number of other monsters you haven’t told us about.”

“Well, yeah, but –” 

“Your knowledge and weapons come from somewhere. Someone must have introduced you to this lifestyle. And I would feel much better if John and I knew exactly what we were fighting.”

“You won’t like much of what ya read.”

“Perhaps I can be the judge of that.”

Staring at Dean, Sherlock doesn’t look nearly as frantic as what John’s feeling inside – and he doesn’t look nearly as frustrated and helpless as he has for the last few days, somehow, even with this new knowledge that they seem to have stumbled into some kind of monster apocalypse. Instead, it’s an expression that John recognizes all too well – that look Sherlock gets when he’s about to go to his mind palace, or start not talking for days, or start working on a project that will result in dismembered body parts being littered around the kitchen. And maybe Dean sees a bit of that, too – sees that determination to figure out a situation for himself, to come up with answers he can work with – because his expression softens a little bit, something that looks like grudging respect flashing across his face.

“Fine. Knock yourself out. We keep most of our books in the bag over in the corner, by the stove. Pens and paper in there, and everything, if ya wanna make your own notes.”

“Thank you.”

“You probably won’t be thanking me in a couple of hours.”

When Sherlock simply nods, Dean glances at John for a second before he turns and stomps up the stairs, his boots loud on the creaky old wood; and Sherlock doesn’t even look at John when he speaks, his eyes on the bag of lore in the corner.

“You should sleep.”

“Sherlock –”

“I need to think.”

There’s not even a hint of curtness in the words, and John knows it’s not a brush-off, knows that it’s ridiculous to even remotely feel like it is one, especially under these circumstances – knows damn well that Sherlock’s not going to suddenly change, just because they seem to have finally figured out how to move this relationship towards something a little less platonic. But given the fact that the end of days is apparently lurking outside their door – and given how much John doesn’t seem to want to let Sherlock out of his sight right now – it still stings a little, despite his best attempts to not let it.

“I – alright. Wake me up if you need anything, alright?”

“Mmm.”

Sherlock still isn’t looking at him, his eyes fixed on the bag of books in the corner, and John take a moment to scan his eyes along the salt lines under the windows before he turns and pushes open the door to the other room – and then there’s a hand curled around his shoulder, keeping him in place.

“John, wait.”

John doesn’t even bother to pretend his heart isn’t racing as he turns around to find Sherlock staring at him, and then there are lips pressed against John’s, the movement just as slow and hesitant as when Sherlock had kissed him in the forest, and John is barely still standing by the time Sherlock pulls away slightly, leaving them more or less breathing into each other’s mouths.

“You should sleep.”

John can’t seem to find words, for a second, and that’s long enough for Sherlock to pull away completely, staring at John for another long moment before he turns and crosses the room to the stove, kneeling down to unzip the bag and start pulling out a large assortment of books and papers. John watches him in silence for a second, something warm and soft and ridiculously sentimental making a home for itself in his stomach, and when he finally turns to enter the room behind him, crawling into the sad looking little bed in the corner, the world around him doesn’t feel quite as dark as it did a few minutes earlier.

\- - -

When John wakes up again, the room is almost completely dark, lit only by the light from a single candle, flickering weakly on the peeling old bedside table. He barely has time to take in the sights around him before he becomes aware of Sherlock sitting at the end of his bed, a book in his lap, and when their eyes meet, there’s something that looks almost feverish in Sherlock’s expression.

“Sherlock – I – what time is it?”

“The lore, John. It’s incredible. Absolutely phenomenal. Holy water, devils traps, salt, dead man’s blood, exorcisms, summonings – demons, leviathans, ghosts, wendigos, shifters – and Dean and Sam are living proof that these things can be fought. That with the right knowledge and weapons, human beings aren’t helpless. John – we can fight these things.”

“Sherlock –”

“We seem to have reached a place where only the impossible remains, and provided I can expand the parameters of my mind, provided we can negotiate a world in which things truly do go bump in the night – then we can fight these things. And if we can fight these things, then maybe we can save ourselves from Hell.”

John stares at him for a long moment, takes in the almost manic gleam in his eyes, watches the way Sherlock seems to be lit up from the inside out, and all he can do is lean forward and curl his hands around Sherlock’s cheeks, Sherlock meeting him halfway, their lips slotting together and something inside John seeing to crumble, like a dam finally breaking under too much pressure. He doesn’t even realize he’s pulling at Sherlock until Sherlock is on top of him, sprawled out along the entire length of his body, and the way Sherlock breathes against his mouth, even as he presses a hand against John’s stomach – it all sends a wave of want so strong it hurts, and John doesn’t quite manage to muffle a groan. It comes to him, faintly, that he should probably be freaking out here, at least a little bit, but with Sherlock sprawled on top of him, all John can feel is safe.

“Castiel came back early. He and Dean have retired for the night.”

The implication behind those words – the insinuation that he and Sherlock have some time alone – makes John go perfectly still. On top of him, his mouth hovering above John’s own, Sherlock feels strung so tight it’s almost like he’s vibrating. Inside his chest, John’s heart is racing almost hard enough to choke him.

“Sherlock – what are you – christ. You gotta tell me exactly what you want, here.”

“You want to hear me say it?”

“I – somehow I think that’s probably a good idea.”

“I am in your bed and on top of you. I am sure you can use your powers of deduction –”

_“Sherlock.”_

Sherlock makes a noise that sounds almost like a laugh, and then he’s lowering his head slightly, pressing his face into the curve of John’s neck as his body seems to relax a little bit more against him. The words, when they come, are slightly muffled, the movement of his lips sending streaks of heat across the skin of John’s neck.

“There’s never been anybody I wanted enough. But I – I want this. Provided you do, too.”

“Christ, Sherlock, of course I do.”

“Then perhaps you should kiss me again.”

“I – jesus.”

“I’m flattered.”

Sherlock is sounding far too smug, all of a sudden, his mouth curling into an obvious grin against the skin of John’s neck, and John can’t stop the laugh that breaks free of his own throat, the feeling of liberation that comes with it – and then he’s nudging Sherlock back just far enough to start squirming around from under the blankets, trying to kick them off with Sherlock still lying mostly on top of them.

“I – dammit –”

“For someone who’s normally so competent –”

“Yeah, yeah, shut up, and –”

John’s words get cut off when Sherlock presses another hard kiss against his mouth, and then he’s shuffling back to unceremoniously yank the blankets clean down John’s body, squirming around over top of them until they’re piled at the end of the bed, leaving John sprawled out on just the sheet with Sherlock straddling across his knees. There’s a moment of stillness, then, as they simply stare at each other, and then Sherlock begins to unbutton his blouse, eyes never straying from John’s, and John’s swallows hard as he digs his fingers into the sheet beneath him. 

“You, uh. Sure you haven’t done this before?”

“I understand the theory. And I believe this generally works better without clothes.”

Sherlock’s lips twitch up at the edges as he speaks, his fingers moving down the buttons of his blouse with practiced efficiency, and all John can do is lie there and watch as the shirt slides off his shoulders, leaving Sherlock naked from the waist up, his miles and miles of pale skin painted in shadow from the light of the flickering candles. He almost doesn’t look real, for a moment, like something out of a painting – and then Sherlock is wiggling further up John’s body, his thighs resting on either side of John’s legs as he gently drags his fingers down the middle of John’s chest, and jesus. John really should have known that Sherlock would bring the same level of intensity to sex as he does to everything else in his life.

“You alright?”

“Pretty sure – jesus, Sherlock. Pretty sure I’m the one who’s supposed to be asking you that.”

“Mmm. Perhaps. Can this go?”

His fingers are playing along the edge of John’s shirt, dancing across the skin of his stomach, and John sucks in a breath at the heat that streaks up his body, somehow managing something that he hopes resembles a nod. It must get the message across, because his shirt is being slowly tugged up his body – and he’s just raised his arms, trying to be helpful, when Sherlock leans over and presses his mouth against John’s stomach, and John jumps so suddenly it’s a wonder he doesn’t knock them both off the bed.

“Jesus, fuck –”

He hears Sherlock laugh against his skin, even as his mouth follows the shirt up John’s body until he reaches John’s chest – and then the shirt is being pulled over his head, over his arms and tossed somewhere to the side, and Sherlock goes still as he pulls back to simply stare at him, eyes sweeping down his body with such frank appraisal that John almost wants to wrap his arms around himself.

“You gonna sit there and stare at me all night, or ya gonna do something?”

“Oh, I don’t know. I rather like the view from here.”

“Sherlock –”

Whatever John was going to say chokes off into a shudder when Sherlock places a hand against the bulge in his jeans, gently cupping him through the fabric. It’s a wave of pure lust through his body, a need so bad he can almost taste it, and when Sherlock’s finger slide up to take hold of his zipper, John distantly wonders when the hell he lost complete control of this situation.

“Alright?”

John somehow manages another nod, and the sound of his zipper is loud in the otherwise silent room. He can feel his skin heating up even further, and then Sherlock is curving his hands into John’s waistband, tugging his trousers down, and John would lift his body to help, but Sherlock’s still sitting on his thighs.

“Sherlock – dammit –”

“Here – just – one moment.”

And then Sherlock’s off his body, kneeling beside him on the bed, his own arousal obvious through the thin material of his trousers, and John has to close his eyes for a moment as they collectively get John’s trousers down his legs and over his feet, Sherlock taking the socks with them, all the material landing in a puddle over the edge of the bed. John barely has time to feel the cool air on even more naked skin before Sherlock is climbing to his feet beside the bed, sliding his own trousers down to the floor, leaving him in nothing but his boxers, and jesus christ, if John’s body starts to burn any hotter, he might actually do some kind of damage to himself.

“Not freaking out yet?”

“No, I – I think I’m good. You?”

“Not in the slightest. I have wanted to do this for a very long time.”

John can’t help the way the words tighten up something in his chest, can only imagine how open and vulnerable his expression is right now, but with the way Sherlock is looking at him, like he wants to never stop exploring every inch of him, John thinks he’s entitled to more than a little sentimentality right now. It’s a thought that washes away when Sherlock slides back onto the bed, pressing their bodies full length against each other and burying his face into John’s neck, and the weight of his body on top of John, the feeling of their naked chests pressing together, the movement of Sherlock’s body against his cock, still trapped behind a dampening layer of fabric – John can’t stop the moan that tears free from his chest, and then Sherlock is rasping out his name and pressing his mouth into the skin of John’s throat.

“It’s so – oh. John. Theory did not – it does –”

“Weren’t quite ready for skin on skin?”

John isn’t sure how he even manages to make words happen at all, and his voice is a shaky, barely there thing, as he drags his hands down the naked expanse of Sherlock’s back, curling his fingers along the edges of his spine, and loving the way Sherlock arches hard against him, something that sounds desperate slipping out of his throat.

“John –”

“Pants, Sherlock – come on –”

Sherlock doesn’t answer with words, and then he’s pressing a kiss against John’s neck and sitting up again, his fingers gently sliding along the top of John’s boxers, just barely dipping underneath the edge. When John somehow manages a nod, Sherlock curls his fingers into the fabric and drags the boxers down John’s thighs, shifting off his body just long enough to get them over John’s feet, and then he’s back again, sitting astride John’s thighs and dragging his eyes along every inch of him. John would make some remark, try to ease his own nerves, but Sherlock’s mouth is hanging slightly open, his skin almost as flushed as John’s own face feels, and fuck it. If Sherlock wants to sit there and look his fill, then John is just going to lie there and let him do so, even though every sweep of Sherlock’s eyes is making him feel like he’s being turned inside out.

“Just how much will I embarrass you if the adjective I choose is ‘beautiful’?”

“Jesus, Sherlock,” and John can feel the skin on his face burn even hotter, reluctant pleasure shooting through him, even as he grits out the words, “Quite a bit, actually.”

“Mmm.”

It’s a non-committal noise, and then Sherlock is arching up to get his boxers down over his legs, his cock sliding free to curve in the air between them, and then, suddenly, every gorgeous bit of him is painted in candlelight as he sits naked across John’s thighs, and all John wants is to get his mouth on every inch of him. Wants to pull him in closer, get his hands on his cock and his chest and his face and his lips and everything he can reach, and the pulse of need that shoots through him is unreal, starting in his groin and twisting its way up through every inch of his body, making him bite back on a moan.

“Still alright?”

“I – yes, god, yes. You?”

“Yes. I am just – I simply – I never believed this would actually happen.”

Sherlock’s eyes slide away for the first time since this whole thing started, a hint of hesitation creeping into the words, and when John feels a flash of affection so strong it’s almost painful, he manages to get himself pushed up on one arm, sliding his other hand down to curl it around Sherlock’s wrist. Sherlock drags his eyes back to him again, and when John breathes thought his racing heart beat and tugs gently on Sherlock’s wrist, Sherlock goes with the movement, and then – jesus, that’s Sherlock’s entire naked body pressed up against his own, and John can’t help but moan and arch up hard against Sherlock’s body.

“Sherlock –”

It’s all he can manage, Sherlock’s mouth panting out hot little breaths against John’s lips, his cock dragging its slickness against the soft skin of Sherlock’s stomach, the movement sending a streak of heat out from his cock and up across the rest of his body – and when Sherlock reaches down to wrap long fingers around him, dragging a thumb through the wetness leaking from the tip of John’s cock, the noise that John makes is one he’s going to deny until the day he dies.

“Christ – dammit, Sherlock –”

Sherlock huffs out a shaky breath against his lips and then licks his way into his mouth, his fingers beginning a slow slide around John’s cock, spreading his own wetness up and down the length of him. John only realizes how sharply he’s digging his nails into Sherlock’s back when Sherlock flinches against his body, and then John’s rasping out and apology and trying to loosen his touch – only to have Sherlock shake his head almost frantically, biting out a soft groan as he arches backwards against John’s hands.

“It’s okay, John – feels good.”

And that, apparently, does it for John, too, because he can’t stop a groan as he arches up hard into the circle of Sherlock’s hand, his nails pressing cutting down into Sherlock’s back again – and then Sherlock’s hissing out a breath against his mouth and speeding up the movement of his fingers, jacking him hard and wet and messy as he digs his teeth into John’s lip, and John is suddenly shaking top to bottom, a sweep of desperation sensation rising in every inch of his body.

“Sherlock – shit –”

Whatever John was going to say gets choked off into a groan as Sherlock pulls free of his lips to drag his mouth down the arch of his neck, teeth and tongue working across the sensitive skin there, biting and licking and John feels the touch straight through him, adding to the fire already burning in his veins. Sherlock’s fingers never slow around him, sliding back up to gather even more wetness before they streak back down his cock again, and when Sherlock’s teeth sink down against the side of his neck, John is suddenly on the edge, his body strung out and trembling against Sherlock’s own.

“Sherlock –”

“Come on, John –”

It’s the rough rasp of his voice that finally does it, snaps John over the edge and into free fall, and John’s mind washes white as he bucks up, hard, hearing himself make noises he didn’t know he could make as Sherlock’s fingers cradle him through it, stroke him through the aftershocks until John finally has to squirm away, the touch too much against his sensitive skin. Sherlock immediately stills, and then he’s leaning back up to kiss him again, his mouth moving slowly against the slackness of John’s lips, soaking up John’s rasping breaths as his hand comes to rest over John’s slamming heartbeat. 

“Alright?”

John can barely hear anything over the noise in his head, but Sherlock sounds just as wrecked as John feels, sounds rough and shaken and completely overwhelmed, and John somehow manages to slide a hand down to curl it around Sherlock’s cock, a weak tendril of arousal twisting through him at the feel of hot and damp skin beneath his palm, at the way Sherlock groans into the touch and clutches desperately at John’s shoulders. It only takes a few shaky strokes before Sherlock is seizing up against him with something that sounds like a whimper, the choked out noise twisting its way straight into John’s heart, and then there’s a splash of warm wetness spreading out between their bodies, as Sherlock shakes against him and buries his face into the side of John’s neck.

There’s a long moment of silence, then, broken only by the sound of their ragged breathing, and John has just begun to string some coherency back together when Sherlock is suddenly kissing him again, hard, his hands cradled around John’s cheek and his body still trembling against John’s own. There’s something that feels almost desperate in the touch, feels like Sherlock wants to crawl inside him and make a home and never leave, and John sighs softly as he slides his hands up to tangle them into the sweaty dampness of Sherlock’s hair, his chest tightening in a way that makes it difficult to keep breathing.

“S’okay, Sherlock. I got ya.”

His voice sounds absolutely ruined to his own ears, and Sherlock’s response is to slide their lips apart and stare down at him, John’s fingers still curled into his hair. He looks – he looks like he’s glowing from the inside out, eyes wide and bright and his skin painted with colour, streaks of sweat trailing down his cheeks and along his neck, and John doesn’t even pretend he’s not doing his best to soak up the image, wanting to store it away to keep with him for the rest of his life.

Then, with a shuddery sigh, Sherlock leans over to blow out the candle before he lowers his head to rest it against John’s chest, the weight of him a pleasant anchor for John’s body, and John lets his eyes drift closed, something inside him slotting into place in a way that feels like coming home, and his fingers gently stroking through Sherlock’s hair as the world slowly begins to slip away.


	5. Chapter 5

When John begins to wake up again, the room is dimly lit by a stream of weak sunshine through the window pane – apparently, he’s managed to sleep through both a day and a night – and he’s warm, well-rested, and incredibly sticky. He thinks he should probably be a little more bothered by that last part, but the sight of Sherlock sprawled out on the bed beside him, his shoulders peeking out from under the blankets and his face pressed into the pillow and his hair a ridiculous mess all over the place, is more than just a little distracting, and for a long moment, all John can do stare.

He’s still staring, trying to process that what he’s seeing is actually what he’s seeing, when there’s a sudden slamming knock against the door, and John jumps nearly as badly as Sherlock, whose eyes snap open as he bolts up and stares right back at John, before his eyes sweep across the room.

“What –”

“Oi, you two. Get up.”

“Christ,” John breathes, squeezing his eyes shut for a second, amazed by just how much he doesn’t want to see Dean right now. All he wants is five more minutes – five more minutes in here with Sherlock, where everything is safe and warm and pretty much perfect, and from the unimpressed look on Sherlock’s face, John’s not the only one.

“Seriously. Get out here. We have a problem.”

All the lingering sleepiness vacates John’s body in a rush, a surge of adrenaline skipping across his skin. Sherlock glances at him for a second before he’s sliding out of bed, collecting his trousers and shirt from the floor, and John quickly does the same, wincing a little as he pulls the clothes onto his sticky body, and trying to ignore the fact that his mouth tastes like he’s been sucking on cotton balls all night. It can’t take them more than thirty seconds to get out into the main room, and when they do, Dean is fully dressed with a rucksack flung over his shoulder, and Castiel is standing in silence beside him, his expression one of obvious unease.

“Guys, what –”

“Sorry, John. Our lead over here was a bust, but we just got wind of something back home. The leviathans are about to pull something huge – tonight – and, if they do, America’s pretty much wiped off the map.”

“But how –”

“No time. You two – this house is as safe as you’re gonna get. You have food and water and stuff to defend yourself with. We’ll be back as soon as we can.”

“And our deals –”

“We’re not giving up on ya. But if the leviathans win, your deals aren’t gonna mean much, cause those monsters’ll be in control of Hell, Heaven, and Earth, which means we’re all gonna be in Hell.”

There’s really nothing that can be said to that, and maybe Dean realizes it, because he glances over at Castiel with a nod. Just as Castiel lays a hand out across his shoulder, Sherlock steps forward, suddenly.

“Let us come with you.”

“Not on this one, buddy. You’d only slow us down.”

“But –”

“No. We’ll be back as soon as we can.”

Dean’s voice might as well be made of stone, and John watches as Sherlock’s lips press tightly together, a fitting counterpart to the way John is having trouble getting enough oxygen.

“And what happens if you don’t come back?”

His own voice sounds like it’s wired to break, and Dean and Castiel share a look that John has no hope of understanding, before Dean turns to stare at them again, his expression unreadable.

“Look, man, I wish I had something better to offer ya, but I don’t have a single hunter in the entire goddamn world I can point you towards. All my friends are dead. And if we’re not back here in three days, you should consider us dead, too. Or captured.” 

“But –

“We’re almost due north of London, and there’s a small town to the west. That’s all I can tell you, cause that’s all I wanna know. But since Cas knows the exact location, if we don’t come back, then consider your cover blown. What you two do then is up to you.”

“You mean – before my time runs out.”

John can hear himself saying the words, knows, on some level, what they mean, but they don’t seem to quite be processing completely. Standing in front of them, Dean’s eyes skitter away for a moment as he shifts slightly in place, rearranging his rucksack over his back as he does so.

“We’ll be back, alright?”

When neither of them seem to have a response, John unable to make words happen and Sherlock standing motionless beside him, Dean makes a noise of obvious frustration and turns to Castiel, his back facing towards Sherlock and John.

“Alright, Cas. Let’s get the fuck outta here, before I change my mind.”

A soft flutter of feathers, and then John and Sherlock are completely alone. Nothing feels real, suddenly – feels, almost, as though John is watching the entire scene from outside of himself – and the dim morning light suddenly seems that much darker than before, as though Dean and Castiel had taken some kind of crucial light and hope with them when they disappeared. It’s too big to process, for a second, and John only clues in to the fact that he’s sunk into a peeling old chair when Sherlock is suddenly kneeling in front of him, his hands on John’s knees, and his expression a mask of something that looks less like panic, and more like pure determination.

“Do not allow yourself to become overwhelmed, John. I need you, and I need you alert.”

“I – alright. But – christ. How can we –”

“Here is what we are going to do. Alright? First, we are going to check the salt lines in this place, and make sure that the devil’s traps haven’t smudged. Then, we are going to take borax and holy water outside with us, and have our baths, and get some water out of the well. And, once that is done, we are going to find some food for you, and then plan out exactly how we are going to break our own deals with Hell.”

“You really think – jesus. You really think we could do that?”

“Dean’s collection of lore is here, and we have salt and holy water and borax and spray paint. We’re not helpless, remember? Not with the right knowledge and weapons.”

It’s like the night before, when Sherlock had discovered all the information Dean and Sam had to share – it’s like he’s vibrating at a higher frequency than normal, about to fly apart unless he gets the answers he needs. There’s hope in his voice, too, despite everything that’s happened, and John nods in silent agreement, clinging to that hope as he lets Sherlock pull him back to his feet. 

\- - -

In the end, and unsurprisingly, it’s Sherlock who ends up doing most of the research.

They take a couple of hours to check over everything in the house, and then go outside to collect some water and spend a few minutes in the river, taking turns standing watch with holy water and borax. By about midmorning they’re back in the house, and Sherlock has laid a blanket down on the grungy kitchen floor, with all of Dean and Sam’s books and papers spread out around him. John, for his part, digs through their collection of canned food until he finds something that doesn’t look completely unappealing, and then he sits himself down with a copy of the exorcism spell. He might not be anywhere close to proficient in Latin, but damned if he’s not going to use that one far off high school class to figure out the basic pronunciation, so that Sherlock’s not the only one who knows how to banish a demon back to Hell.

By the time evening rolls around, John is pretty sure he knows how to read the rite – even if he hasn’t got a hope of getting it memorized – and Sherlock is pacing the floor, muttering to himself. John watches him for a second before he gets up to light the candles in the room, wanting to get them going before the sun goes down completely – and then Sherlock is spinning around to face him, suddenly, wearing the expression he normally wears when something finally clicks into place for him.

“John – John, it is so simple.”

“I – alright. Enlighten me, then.”

“We summon your crossroads demon right into a devils trap.”

“You – wait. You want to bring the damn thing right to us?”

“Yes. And persuade it to break our contracts.”

“And by that –”

“Use pain, if necessary. Threaten to send the damn thing back to Hell. Whatever will convince it to break your deal.”

Sherlock says it like it’s a completely normal thing to say – like the implication of torture isn’t something that should cause John any concern – and John knows he’s gaping, but he can’t seem to shut his mouth. He – it shouldn’t surprise him, it really shouldn’t, that Sherlock would turn to this – but the things he saw in Afghanistan, the horror stories – there’s nobody on the planet – or underneath the planet – that deserves something like that.

“Sherlock. No.”

In front of him, Sherlock seems to visibly deflate, his expression changing to one of confusion.

“Why not?”

“Why not? Christ, Sherlock. I’m not gonna let you carve up some – that’s just – you do realize there’d be a human trapped in there, right?”

“Castiel could heal the host afterwards.”

“And what if Castiel doesn’t come back? What if we end up having to do this alone?”

“Then we exorcise the demon after we’re done, and get the human to the nearest hospital.”

“That is – jesus, Sherlock. That is so many types of not good.”

“And letting you go to Hell _is_ good?”

“I’m not gonna let you carve up some poor sod who got jumped on his way home from work!”

John hadn’t mean to let his voice raise to a yell, but jesus, this is all too fucked up, and Sherlock watches him in silence for a moment before he’s leaning down to pick up one of the books, not quite meeting John’s eyes as he hands it over.

“Here. Everything Dean has on demons and deals and hell hounds. Seems he wrote up quite the master text at one point." 

“On – hell hounds?”

“Read it. I’ll be – in our room, when you’re done.”

Sherlock still isn’t looking at him, and then he picks up another book and leaves the room, leaving John alone with only the book in his hands for comfort. After staring down at it for a moment, his mind still reeling from Sherlock’s suggestion, he sits down on the blanket and spreads the book out in front of him, taking a steadying breath before he opens the front page.

An hour later finds John standing beside the stove, his arms wrapped around himself, and his entire body shaking.

He had read and read as the sun sank down outside – read about how contracts with Hell work, about how demons are created, about how, exactly, hell hounds tear people apart and drag their souls to Hell – and by the time the room had been dark around him, John had been fighting nausea, and his entire body had been going numb. Standing in the corner by the stove and doing his best to just keep it together, he gradually becomes aware of someone standing behind him.

“I’m sorry. You needed to read that, too.”

John can’t seem to find words for a second, and then he clears his throat, trying to breathe through the panic.

“Demons are –”

“Tortured human souls, yes.”

“So you and I – if we go down there –”

“That’s what we become.”

“And the – the hell hounds, jesus. I can’t – that’s not – Sherlock, shit –”

“I’m not going to let that happen to either of us.”

John doesn’t resist at all when Sherlock’s hands fall on his shoulders, and he lets himself be turned around and pulled in close to Sherlock’s body, Sherlock’s arms sliding around him to hold him tight – but even wrapped us as he is around Sherlock, John can’t seem to stop shaking, and the darkness outside seems much more complete than it had earlier in the evening.

“It’s late. You should sleep. I’ll stay with you.”

When John doesn’t say anything in response, Sherlock pulls away just long enough to check the salt lines and blow out the kitchen candles, and then he’s back again and taking hold of John’s elbow, their steps across the kitchen led by the flickering candlelight from inside their bedroom. Once they get there, Sherlock blows out the single candle and nudges John into bed, pulling the blankets up around them as he crawls in and wraps his arms tight around him – and John knows, distantly, that he can’t afford to fall apart like this, knows that this is the last thing that either of them need – but that awareness doesn’t change the fact all he can seem to do is hold on tight to Sherlock, closing his eyes and shaking in the darkness with only Sherlock’s body to anchor him down.

\- - -

After that, the next two days are miserable.

Neither of them brings up Sherlock’s plan again, but the awareness of it hovers between them even as they both keep reading, spending their day light hours poring through every scrap of material, and their nights wrapped up around each other in their little bed. The morning of the fourth day, John wakes up to find Sherlock standing at the end of the bed with two bags beside him, his expression drawn and tired, and large black smudges under his eyes.

“Dean and Castiel and Sam aren’t back. We need to leave.”

“Do we have –”

“Yes. Everything’s packed. I spread out the canned food between the bags, and bottled a bunch of water from the well. I also managed to find two sleeping bags in Dean’s belongings upstairs, and I even located two spare toothbrushes and some toothpaste.”

“I – jesus. Alright. Do we have a direction?”

“Away from the river. Following it is the obvious choice.”

It’s as frustrating at it is true, and ten minutes later finds them striking out westward, away from the building and away from the river, both of them carrying bags on their backs and holy water in their hands. John isn’t sure exactly how long their food is going to last, but the idea of heading towards London, when it seems that the leviathans may well have destroyed the United States by now – it’s just not going to happen.

They spend the first night camped out against a rock bluff, their sleeping bags pressed tightly together inside the tent. John lays out a line of salt out around the tent, and as soon as morning comes around again, he does his best to collect as much of it as he can, deciding that some dirt and leaves aren’t going to hurt the salt in the bag. As he does that, Sherlock scans the area around them with an expression that conveys how very unimpressed he is with the entire situation, and then they head out again, John letting Sherlock lead, though he’s pretty sure Sherlock doesn’t have any kind of coherent destination planned, either.

And so it goes for a week. They don’t talk much, during the days, and there isn’t a repeat of their night at the cabin – both of them too exhausted, and, as time wears on without any sign of a river, both of them too grungy for much of anything – but they spend their nights pressed up close together in the darkness of their tent, the only comfort that John finds as soon as the sun goes down. By the time they hit about day eight, and find themselves standing on the edge of tiny cliff, hiding behind the treeline even as they stare out across a sea of forest, John finally gets the courage to ask the question he’s been avoiding.

“So what do we do when our food runs out?”

“I know how to create snares and search for berries and roots.”

“Well that’s – that’s something, at least.”

“Indeed.”

Sherlock’s voice is a little rough, and John takes a moment to just look at him, watching as he scans his eyes across the treeline below them. Sherlock’s coat is an absolute mess – stained green and black from dirt and grass, with a collar that doesn’t seem to pop up quite as much as it used to – and there’s a scratch across one of his cheekbones, and he’s got visible dirt underneath his fingernails. John had broken out his medical kit to the deal with scratch, hoping to prevent it from scarring or becoming infected, and he finds himself wishing, suddenly, that there was a way for him to just put a bandage on this entire situation, and make everything better again.

“If we continue at this pace, we should be across that valley by this evening.”

“I – alright, fine. But, Sherlock – we can’t do this forever. Can’t just wander around in the bush and hope something’s going to change.”

“We don’t have forever. We have nowhere close to forever. And I have been trying to imagine other ways of breaking your contract, but I can think of nothing.”

Sherlock suddenly sounds almost frustrated enough to start tearing out his own hair, and John swallows hard at the nausea that sweeps through him, stomach turning over at the thought of Sherlock breaking out their collection of knives and salt and holy water and doing his best to force an answer out of an unwilling demon. It’s – there’s nothing else, they’ve found, at this point, but jesus, John does not want to be the reason for that kind of behaviour.

“I just – shit. How would we even locate my demon, anyway? There’s gotta be more than one.”

“You still have your wallet, and Dean and Sam have provided us with everything else we would need. Your photo should summon the demon you made the original contract with.”

“Oh.”

He probably really should have something more to say than that, because Sherlock is looking at him expectantly – and John gets the haste, gets that his soul is promised to Hell, gets that he’s already cheated death far too many times in the last couple of weeks – but there’s just – still, he can’t. He – there must be some other way. Something that they haven’t thought of yet.

“Just – can I have one more night to think on it? I know we’re – kinda pressed for time. But I just – I can’t, Sherlock. One more night?”

There’s silence for a long moment, and then Sherlock sighs, setting down his bag beside him and turning to John. He reaches out, then, and though neither of them exactly smell like fresh roses, John suddenly finds himself being pulled in close against Sherlock’s body, Sherlock’s arms tight around him and his mouth pressing into his hair as he speaks.

“Alright, John. One more night.”

“Thanks.”

Instead of a spoken response, John gets a gentle kiss against his forehead, and he feels the touch straight through every inch of him, his already exhausted legs going a bit more wobbly beneath him. That night, curled up in their sleeping bags in their tent, Sherlock seems to snuggle even closer than normal, his fingers threading through John’s hair as he slowly begins to drift off, and John falls asleep feeling safer than he has since they left the safe house.

That morning, when John wakes up, he’s alone.

He bites back the instinctive flare of panic – there’s no reason why Sherlock shouldn’t be up and outside already – and then he sees the piece of paper laid out on Sherlock’s sleeping bag. His hands are shaking as he reaches out to pick it up, a wave of fear making a home in his stomach as he unfolds the piece of paper as quickly as he can without tearing it.

_John._

_I’m sorry. You would have never agreed._

_If I am unable to break your contract, you still have 347 more days to find something new to try. If I do not return within ten days, I am sorry for failing you, and you should consider me lost._

_And in that case – well, you already know everything I could say._

_\- Sherlock_

The words are blurring by the time John reaches the end of the note, and John crushes the paper between his fingers as he slowly crumples to the floor of the tent, tears tearing out of him for the first time since Sherlock stepped off the roof of St. Bartholomew’s.

\- - -

The next week is the longest of John’s life.

He doesn’t move the tent from his location, and the salt circle around it is never cleaned up. He spends his days staring at the line of trees in front of him, trying very carefully to not think about anything at all, and his nights curled up in a ball in his sleeping bag, the tent feeling cold and unsafe without Sherlock lying beside him. He keeps an eye on his food and his water, drinking and eating just enough to get by, and he rarely lets go of his bottle of holy water, clinging tight to it like it’s some kind of lifeline. By the time he reaches day seven – and he only knows because he’s been scratching lines into the dirt – there’s still no sign of Sherlock, and John spends the night fighting tears again, curled up with his arms around himself, as though there’s some way he can stop himself from shaking apart.

Sometime in the night, though – something happens.

John is just managing to slip off, the tug of exhaustion finally starting to pull him under, when the tent seems to brighten up slightly, and John sits up so suddenly he almost hurts himself – because yes, that is his own hand glowing, some kind of writing painted out along his skin, and jesus christ, it’s enough to have him out of his sleeping bag in about two seconds, stripping off his shirt to watch the writing appear across his chest and stomach and arms.

“Jesus fucking christ.”

It stops almost as quickly as it started, the writing disappearing into a wave of nothingness, leaving John standing in the silent darkness, his entire frame shaking top to bottom. He feels sick, feels like he wants to scratch off his own skin – doesn’t know if what just happened is a good thing or a bad thing, doesn’t know if it even has anything to do with Sherlock, doesn’t know if Sherlock is alive or dead or soaked in the blood of a demon, and when he finally makes himself put his shirt back on and climb into his sleeping bag again, every inch of him feels like it’s crawling, and he doesn’t manage to fall asleep until the sun is already coming up.

\- - -

The morning of day twelve finds John slowly and methodically packing up his things.

He knows there are tear tracks down his cheeks, but he can’t feel anything. Everything around him is numb, doesn’t seem real, and as he tries to fit everything he needs into one bag, he finds himself stopping, suddenly, as he just stands and stares out over the forest, trying to figure out which way to even go.

West. He’ll keep going west. Dean had said there was a town there.

That afternoon, though, he’s still standing at the campsite. Knows he needs to keep moving. Knows that Sherlock wouldn’t want him to give up. But he just – can’t seem to walk away. His legs won’t work right, and his lungs seize up every time he tries to leave. It’s like there’s not enough air in the forest – like something is keeping him here, pinned to the last place he ever saw Sherlock, stopping him from moving on.

By evening, he’s sunk down to a crouch on a nearby log, not even a line of salt to keep him safe. With his head in his hands and his eyes pressed into his palms, shutting out the darkening world around him, John finds himself doing his to get himself up on his feet again, because he needs to walk away from this place, and, yet, it’s the most impossible thing anyone has ever asked of him.

“John.”

The single world tangles up inside him and draws a pained noise from his throat – and when John jumps to his feet and spins around, it’s to find Sherlock standing a few feet away, his face ashen and his skin smudged with what looks like dried blood, and it’s like – like being punched in the heart, like having the world crack around him – and then Sherlock is taking a hesitant step forward, uncertainty written across every inch of his body.

“John, I – I understand if you’re angry. You’re welcome to hit me, if that would help.”

John tries to speak, tries to make his mouth form around Sherlock’s name, but nothing comes. He’s shaking, top to bottom, and he can’t seem to move forward, can’t seem to get across those last few steps and get his arms around Sherlock.

“And I’m – I apologize for being delayed.”

“Sherlock –”

“But please, John – just tell me one thing. Then you can be as angry as you want with me. You can do whatever you want with me. But just tell me – did your skin glow with writing?”

John doesn’t know why it’s important, can’t think past the fact that Sherlock is alive, can’t think past the fact that he’s standing right in front of him, but he manages a nod, somehow, and scratches out something that almost resembles his voice.

“I – yes, a few nights back. Why is that –”

And then he stops, because the change in Sherlock – it’s like John can see the exhaustion slide from him, it’s like he can watch the sun coming out across his entire body – and then he’s closed the last few steps and is in front of John, his hands reaching out to curl around John’s shoulders, a touch that he can barely feel with how numb every inch of his body seems to be.

“He – the lore said that would happen – John, _it worked_. The contract no longer exists. I got him to break it. You’re not going to Hell, John, you’re free – John, _it worked.”_

It takes a long moment for the meaning behind the words to process, and then it’s like being backhanded across the face, the world tilting and spinning around him and the air tightening in his lungs, and all John can do is stare at Sherlock as he practically vibrates in front of him, his bright eyes blown wide and a look of wonder spreading out across his face, and John knows he should be furious that Sherlock left, should be more disturbed by what Sherlock’s done to make this happen – and yet – 

“It – wait. It worked?”

There’s no verbal response, but arms are suddenly wrapped tight around him, Sherlock making some kind of choking sound as he pulls John in close against his body and buries his face into John’s hair, and John can barely see through his tears as he clings right back and buries his face into Sherlock’s shoulder, letting the strength of Sherlock’s arms keep him upright as he just holds on as tight as he can.

\- - -

That night, they don’t even bother with separate sleeping bags. It’s hard to fit two people inside one, but somehow they manage.

Sherlock doesn’t appear to have been wearing his coat while he went to work on the demon, but the rest of his outfit is ruined, a mess of blood and dirt and god knows what else – John is careful to not think too closely about it – and John knows that he’s almost just as filthy, but that doesn’t stop either of them from wrapping as closely around each other as they can, lying together in the darkness as they breathe into each other’s mouths and don’t say a word. Eventually, though, John decides to try to put some thoughts together, even as he presses a bit closer and just enjoys the feeling of Sherlock’s body against his own.

“I was ready to kill ya myself, ya know.”

“It was the only way.” 

Sherlock’s voice is a low rumble against John’s ear, and John nods a bit as he closes his eyes and simply enjoys being close to Sherlock, feeling the murmured words reverberate across his chest. The world around him still feels a little numb, like everything is refusing to sink in all at once, and he’s pretty sure that, when it finally does, it’s going to hit him with alarming force – but for now, he’s just going to lie here next to Sherlock and cherish the fact that the darkness around him feels lighter than it has in months.

“So, how did you do it, then? And I don’t mean the grisly details. How’d ya trap the demon?”

“Spotted an old logging trail from that cliff we were standing on, the day before I left. I knew we would eventually find some kind of road if we headed west, in the direction of a town.”

“You – wait. This was your plan all along?”

“Do you truly believe I would stroll aimlessly through a forest while your soul was on the line?”

Since there’s really nothing that can be said to that, John just sighs softly presses his face a little harder into Sherlock’s shoulder, stroking his fingers across Sherlock’s back. 

“Alright, fine. So you planned this. And then what?”

“I followed the logging trail until I found an intersecting road, and then I used spray paint to turn the entire crossroads into one giant devil’s trap – several layers of paint, so as to make it difficult to rub off. After that, fighting the demon was as simple as fighting any normal human.”

“And you, what – interrogated it right there, in the middle of the road?”

“Yes. It took me four days to find the crossroads. I never saw a single other human being.”

“Jesus.”

“Indeed.” 

“So you just – christ, that’s insane.”

Sherlock simply nods against him, the movement brushing his mouth over the mess of John’s hair, and John deliberately keeps his eyes open and fixed into the darkness of Sherlock’s shoulder, trying his very best to not imagine that scene at the crossroads. It might have gotten him out of his deal, but that Sherlock would even turn to such tactics, to keep John safe – John presses a little bit closer in the darkness, suddenly unable to deal with the implications of that.

“And what happened… after…”

“I exorcised the demon. The human host was already dead – not at my hand, before you ask. And, if he had not been, you may have noticed that I took your medical supplies when I stole your wallet. I had also not inflicted any damage that would have impeded his ability to walk, or that would have caused him to bleed out. Unpleasant as it would have been, we could have taken care of him until we reached town.”

“Unpleasant. Right.”

John can’t quite keep the incredulity out of his voice, because that honestly must be the understatement of the year, and the image of him and Sherlock staggering through the forest with some poor sod trying to keep up with them – he can’t quite stop a shudder, and god, this new world that they have stumbled into is hellish. At least whenever someone had pointed a gun at him in Afghanistan, John wouldn’t have been killing anyone innocent when he returned fire.

“John. As soon as we reach town we will be in danger of being captured by the leviathans. I was not going to let you walk into that with your soul bound for Hell.”

“And what about you?”

“We can worry about me tomorrow. For now, you should get some sleep.” 

It’s not quite the answer he had been hoping for, but John nods against Sherlock’s body, and then there’s silence for a long while as Sherlock’s breathing evens out against him, and John feels his own mind start to slide into a fog of exhaustion, the events of the day finally beginning to catch up with him. Just before he goes under completely, though, he shifts a little, remembering something very crucial that he hasn’t said yet – something that needs to be said, even if John is still reeling from the terrifying lengths Sherlock seems willing to go to keep him safe.

“Hey, Sherlock?”

“Mmm?”

“Thanks.”

For a few seconds, Sherlock doesn’t react at all. Then, he sighs softly and tightens his hold around John, pressing a barely there kiss into his hair, and John closes his eyes with a small smile as he lets himself go, the tug of sleep reaching up to pull him down, and Sherlock’s arms around him to keep him safe.


	6. Chapter 6

By the time afternoon rolls around, it’s pouring rain, and they’re standing on the edge of yet another cliff side, with Sherlock looking more than a little exhausted as he leans up against one of the trees behind him. It’s beginning to sink in, finally, the extent of what’s happened, but the awareness of a leviathan apocalypse and Sherlock’s deal are still lying heavy on his shoulders, and he holds tight to his bottle of holy water as he watches Sherlock survey the trees below them. Sherlock had still been wrapped around him when John had woken up, but John isn’t sure exactly how much sleep Sherlock had managed to get, and with the dark smudges under his eyes and his soaking wet hair and the flecks of dried blood still stained into his clothing, it almost hurts to look at him.

“If we keep moving west, we will reach that town eventually. I can then attempt to contact Mycroft, and establish a safe way to return to the city.”

“And what about your deal? You never said what you planned to –”

“In order for me to summon the demon that holds my contract, I need to discover its name – and Dean and Sam’s collection of lore has nothing on how to do that. Until I can figure that out, there is little that can be done for me, regardless of the danger from the leviathans.”

He delivers it with barely any emotion in his voice, but it sounds – close to impossible, almost, and it’s no wonder he hadn’t wanted to talk about it last night, because if even demonic lore doesn’t have the answers Sherlock needs, then that’s just – all kinds of not good. The last thing they need is to be fighting off monsters while Sherlock’s soul is still bound to a contract with Hell, and something of what he’s feeling must be showing on his face, because Sherlock pushes himself off the tree he’s been leaning against, his wet hair hanging straggly as he presses a hand against the side of John’s cheek, and wow, John is never going to get his head around the easy way they seem to have finally slid into this new place in their relationship.

“John. These creatures can be fought. These contracts can be broken. Do your best to not forget that, alright?”

Sherlock’s lips twitch up slightly in the rain, visible exhaustion still in his eyes but a level of calmness there that John hasn’t seen since that first night at the crossroads, and it hits John, suddenly, that Sherlock is right – that one of their contracts is broken, and that if he can be saved from Hell, then maybe Sherlock can be, too, no matter how much more complicated it’s going to be, and he leans up to press his lips to Sherlock without even thinking about it, heat streaking through him when Sherlock curls his fingers into his jacket and kisses right back. They’re both filthy, and the rain is soaking through his clothes, and they need to get the tent pitched before night settles around them, and he knows that Sherlock is still stained with the blood of that demon, but he suddenly just doesn’t care, and based on the way Sherlock is kissing him back, John’s not the only one who desperately needs this moment of closeness.

“John –”

Sherlock pulls away just long enough to murmur his name, his hands coming up to curl along the sides of John’s cheeks, rainwater sliding their skin damply together, and John knows that they have other things they need to be doing right now, but, christ, John is only human, and there are suddenly about a dozen ways he’d like to show his appreciation for Sherlock for getting him out of his deal.

“John, we need to –”

“Yeah, shit, sorry – I know –”

“If it helps, you are not the only one who wishes that our current circumstances involved a bath and a bed.”

Sherlock’s low voice seems to soak right into his skin, and John has to close his eyes for a moment, leaning a bit closer to Sherlock as he breathes through the wave of need, and when Sherlock drags another damp thumb across his cheek, smearing some more rainwater against his skin, it’s all John can do to hold in a noise of frustration, his heart leaping hard in his chest. 

“Dammit, Sherlock –”

“Oh, good. You’re still alive.”

Sherlock springs back so suddenly that John nearly stumbles, as both of their heads whip around to find Castiel standing there in the rain, his trench coat soaked and drooping around him and his hair all over the place, and sweet jesus, it seems that the concept of guardian angels actually has some serious validity, after all, and the relief that shoots through him is enough to make his knees shake.

“Cas!”

The second it’s out he regrets it – is he really in any position to be using an angel’s nickname? – but he doesn’t have much time to worry about it, because Castiel is sinking to the ground, crouching there in the rain with a hand pressed to his forehead, and John is on his knees in about half a second, his hands on Castiel’s shoulders, as though there’s anything he can do to help.

“Castiel?”

“John.” 

He sounds well beyond exhausted, and John glances up at Sherlock, who looks just as perplexed as John feels. All the while, the rain continues to pour down on them, and John blinks away the liquid as he watches Castiel raise his head to stare at him, dark smudges under his eyes and the lines of his face more drawn than usual.

“I apologize. The trip seems to have drained me more than I anticipated.”

“Why – shit, Castiel. We thought the leviathans had gotten you. Are Sam and Dean –”

“We managed to disrupt the original plans, but there were… complications.”

“Complications?”

“Dean and Sam were imprisoned, and the leviathans kept them too drugged to send me a location through prayer. It took me over a week, and when I finally managed to locate them, the building they were being held in was warded against angels. It was… I was able to heal them, after, when we escaped, but I regret not having found them sooner.”

That’s… incredibly disconcerting, actually, and something pained seems to flash across Castiel’s face before he slowly climbs to his feet, John taking his hands back and standing up with him, ready to grab him in case he falls again. There’s a sudden surge of wind and rain, then, cutting across the cliff and leaving John flinching against the chill, and Castiel’s eyes slide up through the rain to fix on the clouds above them.

“I apologize. If I was stronger, I could shield you with my wings.”

John’s mind gets stuck on the idea of wings, for a moment, but Castiel is actually sounding apologetic, as though there’s anything at all to feel bad about, his expression suddenly as downcast as the rain around them, and John has to swallow around a sudden wash of sentimentality towards this… angel, christ. This exhausted trenchcoat-wearing angel who truly seems to want to help them.

“It’s okay, Cas – Castiel. That you’re even here –”

“I am simply glad you are alive.”

He rests a finger on John’s forehead, raising his other hand in the direction of Sherlock, and John can’t help but flinch a little.

“Are you sure you’re – well, up for flying?”

“Yes. It is draining, but not impossible.”

Sherlock steps up beside John without saying a word, and as soon as Castiel’s fingers make contact with them, the world begins to spin, solidifying again to bring in – what looks like the walls of yet another cabin kitchen, and oh god, even if there’s not running water or electricity, this is still going to be so much better than sleeping in a tent.

“This building belongs to a hunter. You should be safe until we can return. I must now go to Dean and Sam – we are planning an attack for tomorrow, before the leviathans complete their final move. If you do not hear from us within two days, the nearest town is to the south.”

Castiel sounds even more weary than he had before, and John wants to ask what’s going on, what could possibly happen to make an angel this… ill, or this exhausted, but Castiel is already gone, with nothing but a soft flutter of feathers to herald his departure. John stares at the space where he had been for a second, before he shrugs off his backpack and dumps it onto the floor, and Sherlock does the same beside him, before he tightens his coat a little closer around himself and surveys the room, which seems much less rundown than the kitchen at their other safe house.

“We are no longer in Europe.”

“I – seriously?”

“The outlets. Different.”

“Oh. Well, that’s – fine. As long as we’re safe, I don’t really –”

“And there is water on the sink taps. Someone has recently turned them off with wet hands.”

“You mean – this place has running water?”

“Apparently. Perhaps –”

But John’s already gone, because if that’s true, then that’s sounds like every holiday wrapped up together in one wonderful package, and he barely pays attention to the rest of the house until he finds the bathroom, which – miracle of all miracles – is equipped with a toilet and a shower. When the shower actually turns on, a stream of warm water hitting his palm, John can’t stop a noise of triumph, and he’s already stripping off the wet cardigan when Sherlock leans up against the doorframe, his filthy coat still wrapped tightly around him.

“This building is protected by salt lines and devil’s traps, and there is borax and holy water located in the bedroom.”

“Mmm. Good.”

It’s probably way more important than his preoccupation with the fact that they apparently have running water, but John doesn’t bother for a better response, pulling the filthy cardigan over his head and dropping it to the bathroom floor, the skin of his chest prickling a little at the sudden press of air against it. Still leaning against the door, Sherlock seems to pull his jacket a little tighter around him, his eyes skittering up and down the length of John’s body, a glance that John can almost feel, and – yeah. He knows that they have much bigger things to worry about right now, and the weight of Sherlock’s deal is pressing down hard against his shoulders, but with the promise of warm water, and with the security of a safe house for the first time in weeks, all John wants, suddenly, is the opportunity to get close to Sherlock in ways he hasn’t been able to since that first night.

“You… getting in here with me?”

It comes out, even to his own ears, a little more hesitant than he was aiming for, unsure of Sherlock’s reaction – and when Sherlock actually colours a little bit, a hint of pink starting to sneak across his cheekbones, John simply breathes through the low curl of arousal, although he’s pretty sure his expression is nowhere near as calm and collected as he would like it to be. This is – even though there’s been nothing since that one night, he hadn’t expected to feel this off balance, as though they haven’t both clearly demonstrated that they both want this, and he does his best to stop from squirming as Sherlock simply watches him. 

“Here. Why don’t you – c’mon, Sherlock. Everything we’re wearing is filthy, and we’re stuck here for now. How about –”

But Sherlock’s already nodding and sliding out of his long coat, slipping it off his shoulders and resting it carefully across the sink, and it’s John’s turn to colour a little, even as he turns his attention back to himself and makes short work of getting rid of his boots, socks and trousers, leaving everything in a pile on the floor. By the time that’s done, Sherlock’s lost his shirt, leaving him in nothing but his shoes and pants, all pale skin and sharp lines in the crappy light of the bathroom, and John swallows down his nerves – ridiculous, to be nervous, considering everything they’ve been through together – as he slides off his pants and leaves them on the floor, not missing the way Sherlock’s tongue slides out to dampen his lips, his eyes skating down the length of John’s body, and christ, John is never going to get used to being on the end of that stare.

“C’mon, Sherlock. Warm water, remember?”

He can’t quite get it as steady as he wants, his skin already flushing with the way Sherlock is watching him, and when Sherlock’s fingers go to the buttons of his own shirt, John tears his eyes away to pull back the shower curtain and step under the warm water, not even trying to stop the groan of pure bliss from sliding past his lips. He’s just closed his eyes and tilted his face up into the spray – and he probably looks ridiculous, with his face scrunched up into the water, but he honestly just can’t give a damn – when there’s movement behind him, a cool draft of air as the curtain shifts, and he blinks his eyes open as he turns around and shifts to make room for Sherlock under the spray, trying to get them both underneath, and – christ. Sherlock’s body seems to go on forever, his skin flushing all over from the heat of the shower, his hair tangling damp around the edges of his eyes, and his gaze fixed on John in a way that makes John swallow hard.

“Here.”

It takes him a second, Sherlock’s voice low and rough under the noise of the shower, and then he realizes that Sherlock is handing him – miracle of all miracles – a bar of soap, and he’s pretty sure he’s never been so happy to see soap in his life.

“Where did –”

“Dean and Sam’s supplies.”

Sherlock’s lips twitch up a bit at the corners as John takes the soap, and Sherlock starts to scrub himself down with another bar, his soapy hands sliding up and down his own body, not a hint of self-consciousness as he seems to clean every inch of himself with almost clinical precision. John blinks into the water for a moment before he eventually tears his eyes away to do the same, water and soap spreading across his body as he darts glances at Sherlock the entire time, and god, it’s a wonder John had ever thought he was completely straight. Sherlock’s cock is rising, slightly, his hands sliding over his own body and his eyes never straying far from John, and by the time John feels clean – really, truly clean, for the first time in weeks – he’s aching with the need to touch, and when Sherlock puts his bar of soap to the side, John quickly does the same, blinking rapidly to get the water out of his eyes as he watches Sherlock watch him.

“So, then –”

But he doesn’t get chance to finish – barely even gets a chance to start, really – because Sherlock is already kissing him, crowding in close and molding up against him under the spray of the shower, hands slip sliding along John’s soaking wet body, along every inch he can seem to reach, and John would be embarrassed by the way he almost seems to fall into Sherlock’s body, if not for the way Sherlock can’t seem to get close enough, and god. On those rare occasions he had imagined Sherlock and sex, he had never pictured it being like this – had never imagined that Sherlock would actually let himself go, had imagined that he would be unsure and hesitant and possibly just as prickly as he normally was – but this, this shameless way Sherlock seems to want to get lost in him – this is so not what John had ever expected, and it’s already burning him up from the inside out.

Then, Sherlock slides a soapy hand down his stomach, fingers curling in the hair above his cock, the touch nothing but a tease, and John can feel the way his cock jumps, even as his hips jolt forward against Sherlock. Sherlock’s only response is to tilt his head down, lips fastening hard on to the side of his neck as his hand slides slowly down the curve of his thigh, not touching him where he wants it most, and John can’t stop a groan as his head falls back, his eyes closed against the spray as Sherlock’s teeth scrape down his neck and fingers draw little circles against his inner thigh.

“Fucking – tease – where did you learn –”

“I said virgin, John. Not naïve.”

Sherlock’s voice is rough underneath the spray of the water, the words vibrating hotly across the skin of his neck, and John suddenly doesn’t want to deal with the logistics of being in the shower, doesn’t want to do this standing up any more. He pulls back with a noise that sounds frustrated to his own ears, Sherlock’s fingers sliding free of his thigh and dragging across his knee before leaving completely, and John reaches down to catch hold of his hand, staring up at Sherlock’s damp face through the spray.

“Bed. There is – why don’t we –”

“Yes.”

It can’t take them more than thirty seconds to get to the bedroom – normally, John’s not the type to wander naked through a strange house, but in this case, he’s pretty sure an exception can be made – and he barely gets a look at the surprisingly clean blankets before Sherlock is crowding in close again, nudging him backwards onto the bed, and John pulls him down on top of him, a groan slipping free as wet skin slides against wet skin, their bodies pressed full length against each other and his cock sliding damp against the inner curve of Sherlock’s hip. On top of him, Sherlock’s breath is coming hot and hitched against his mouth, and when his hands slide down to grip tight against his hips, pushing their bodies even closer together, John doesn’t even bother to try to stop himself from digging his nails in hard against Sherlock’s back. As before, the slight bite of pain seems to do it for Sherlock, who bites out a rasping noise and then pulls back to stare at John, his skin flushed and his eyes darkened with arousal – and then he slides to the side, slightly, tugging John’s body with him as he goes, and John gets the hint and rolls with it, and they end up with Sherlock pressed down against the blankets and John lying on top of him.

“Like this.”

“Like –”

“You on top of me. Feels nice.”

“Christ.”

It’s all John manages to get out, because Sherlock is kissing him again, teeth coming out to scratch across his lip, and his hands sliding back down to clench into John’s hips, and from the way Sherlock’s skin is flushing red across his cheekbones, John’s not the only one feeling like he’s about to fly apart. He wants, suddenly, to get his mouth on everything he can reach, and he wiggles free of Sherlock’s grip long enough to slide down the bed, Sherlock’s body twisting up against his mouth as he bites down against a brief flare of nervousness and begins to trace a path along Sherlock’s chest with his lips and tongue.

“John.”

Sherlock’s fingers have curled into the bed sheets beneath them, the fabric bunching up tight in his hands, and his voice is coming out shaky. It all sends a new burst of arousal through John, his cock hardening further as he slides his tongue along the dips of Sherlock’s stomach, loving the taste and feel of Sherlock’s skin underneath his tongue. When Sherlock murmurs his name again, John wiggles a little further down the bed and slides the flat of his tongue along the curve of one of Sherlock’s hipbones, and when he carefully scrapes his teeth along the inside of one of Sherlock’s thighs, Sherlock’s hips leave the bed so sharply John is surprised he doesn’t knock them both off.

“John – John, please –”

This, John thinks distantly, is probably when he should probably have that moment of at least a little panic over the fact that his heterosexuality appears to have curled up and died somewhere, but as he cradles Sherlock’s cock in his hand and watches it curve towards his face, as he listens to the way Sherlock doesn’t even seem to be trying to censor himself, all John can do is swallow against the saliva pooling in his mouth, and it’s unreal how much he wants to make Sherlock fall apart under his hands. He might not have ever done this before, but he knows what feels good when someone does it to him, and based on the heat that lances through him as he slides his tongue up the length of Sherlock’s cock, it’s pretty clear that getting his mouth on Sherlock is going to do it for John as much as it’s obviously doing it for Sherlock, who’s all but vibrating as he tries to keep his hips from bucking forward.

“John.”

It seems to be all Sherlock can say, curse and praise and pleading all wrapped up in one, and John breathes through the jerk of need that pools hot in his groin, because jesus, nobody’s ever done this to Sherlock before, and that knowledge is almost as heady as the feeling of Sherlock’s cock on his tongue. He licks across his palm before he curls his hand at the bottom of Sherlock’s cock, sliding his fingers in a slow glide around him, and when he leans in to hollow his mouth around the damp tip, Sherlock makes a noise that sounds almost pained, and the pulse of pride that shoots through John is almost as strong as the pulse of sheer want. Everything’s harder than it looks, at first, trying to figure out exactly where to put his teeth and tongue and lips, but from the way Sherlock’s fingers are turning white against their tight grip on the bed, and the way his breathing is coming in ragged punched out noises, John’s pretty sure he must be doing something right. And while the physical sensation of his mouth around Sherlock, the taste of him, makes him want so badly it almost hurts, it’s the way Sherlock is reacting – the noises he makes, the way he trembles under John’s tongue, the way he bites out John’s name as John hollows his mouth and sucks, hard – that’s leaving John groaning around the damp hardness in his mouth. 

“John – you –”

John wants to say something in response, wants to find a way to soothe him, because Sherlock sounds almost frantic, suddenly, shaking under John’s mouth and groaning as his hips jerk up, but then Sherlock is going still underneath him, and John is suddenly flooded with the taste of him, overwhelming and unreal and about a dozen different types of arousing. Sherlock is mostly silent as he comes, little wheezing gasps of air that John feels through every inch of him, and he swallows as much as he can, most of it slipping out from between his lips, trying to gentle his mouth around the damp skin of Sherlock’s cock, wanting to drag out those gasps for as long as he possibly can.

Then, Sherlock’s tugging hard at him, shaking fingers sliding damp against the sweat on his shoulders, and John barely has time to pull his mouth free before Sherlock is yanking him back up his body, fingers tight against his skin as he presses their mouths together, the taste of him spreading out between them, and the new pulse of need that sweeps out from his cock leaves John groaning; and then Sherlock’s got a hand around him and is panting against his neck, teeth digging in sharply to his collarbone, and John only realizes how close he already is when he starts to shake, a wave of desperation spreading out across his body.

“Sherlock – shit, shit – jesus –”

“Come on, John.”

Sherlock’s voice is as wrecked as though he’d been the one with a cock in his mouth, and the sound of it is enough to push John right to the edge, leaving him hanging there as he whimpers and clutches at Sherlock, pushing his cock forward into the warm heat of Sherlock’s hand. He teeters there, for a long moment, heat gathering inside him and his skin feeling too small for his body, and then Sherlock scrapes out a bite along the side of his neck, and the final spark of pain pushes John over, leaves him spurting into Sherlock’s hand and groaning as he shakes his way through it, his body slowly going limp as he sprawls out on top of Sherlock and ends up with his face smothered into Sherlock’s neck.

“Jesus.”

He sounds just as overwhelmed as he feels, the single word coming out rough, and honestly, the fact that he’s even managed two syllables is a miracle. Underneath him, Sherlock is panting, his neck damp and salty against John’s mouth, their bodies stuck together with water and sweat, and when Sherlock’s hands come up to rest on his back, sliding across the skin and seeming to hesitate just above the curve of his ass, the tips of fingers drawing small circles in the dip of his back, John can’t stop a new wave of arousal, his voice coming out a groan into Sherlock’s neck.

“Sherlock, christ. You’re going to kill me.”

When there’s still no verbal response from Sherlock, even though his hands tighten their grip against his back, John finally gets it together enough to raise his head, slightly, bracing his arms on the mattress on either side of Sherlock’s body, and jesus, Sherlock’s face is covered in sweat, his skin still flushed and his mouth hanging open ever so slightly, and John’s pretty sure he can see something almost vulnerable in the way he’s staring right back at John, eyes wide as they track across his face. It comes to him, again, suddenly, that this is all new to Sherlock, that for all that he may claim he’s not naïve, there’s still a big difference between theory and reality, and if Sherlock’s feeling even half of what John’s feeling right now, his orgasm still weighing down his limbs and his chest tightening with a whole mess of emotions, then it’s no wonder Sherlock’s looking a bit overwhelmed.

“Hey, you okay?”

“Yes.”

But he still sounds shaky, his gaze skittering away over John’s shoulder, and it’s insane, almost that John’s the only one who’s ever gotten to see Sherlock like this – the only one who’s gotten close enough to see the Sherlock who’s not perfectly secure, the Sherlock who doesn’t know everything about everything for once – and when John raises a hand to brush a mess of sweaty hair from Sherlock’s face, Sherlock’s eyes finally slide back to his, that visible hesitancy still there, and John doesn’t bother even trying to mute the affection he knows is written across his expression, his lips curving up as he simply watches Sherlock watch him. After a long moment, Sherlock finally seems to relax underneath him, his body going looser and the hesitation in his eyes finally seeming to slide away, and John smiles at him for a moment longer before he lowers his head to rest his cheek against Sherlock’s chest, closing his eyes as he listens to the racing beat of Sherlock’s heart.

\- - -

By the time the next day has slid well into the evening hours, they’ve both made use of the shower again, and Sherlock has taken to pacing the kitchen in circles, while John has scrubbed out all of their clothes in the tub as best he can, leaving everything to dry in various locations across the house. The insane sight of Sherlock in ripped up jeans and a ragged Zeppelin shirt is almost enough to distract him from the fact that he’s stuck going commando in another man’s jeans, and that Dean’s shirt feels about seven sizes too big on him – but nowhere near enough to distract him from the fact that, now that they’re no longer cocooned safely in a warm bed, and with Sherlock trying to wear a hole in the kitchen floor, he’d do just about anything to be where Sam and Dean and Castiel are, to be able to help them with whatever scheme they’re putting into place to go after the leviathans.

“Perhaps if I pray nicely enough, Castiel will come and get us.”

Sherlock might as well read minds, sometimes, and his voice is clipped and sharp, a world of difference from the man who had been sprawled out beneath John the night before, and John shifts slightly where’s he sitting, curled up on the floor with his back pressed against the kitchen wall.

“Doubt it. And until Dean and the others can help us break your contract, the last thing you should do is go anywhere that could get you – anywhere that could be dangerous.”

Saying it out loud seems to bring it home, all over again, because even if it is possible to break a contract, they still don’t know how to find Sherlock’s demon – and when Sherlock makes a sound of disgust and goes to stand by the window, staring into forest as though he can find the answers he needs in it, John climbs to his feet and glances around the kitchen, wishing there was something he could offer to Sherlock as a distraction. Unlike at the other safe house, Sam and Dean’s belongings don’t seem to include a single scrap of lore around for Sherlock to hide himself in, and – based on the way Sherlock seems about ready to chew off his own fingers with frustration – John is pretty sure that Sherlock wouldn’t be interested in a repeat of yesterday’s activities. He’s about to suggest Sherlock teach him some Latin, or something, when there’s a sudden flutter of wings, and Castiel is crashing to the ground beside them, trenchcoat covered in blood and some kind of black liquid, with Dean and Sam sprawled out on the floor beside them.

“Cas!”

John’s about to hit his knees and start looking for injuries, start trying to find out wherever Sam and Dean are hurt, their clothes stained red and black, blood and something else, and then he realizes that Dean is full-on laughing, lying on his back and actually wheezing for air, even as a stream of blood slides down from the split skin on his forehead, and his hand gropes towards Castiel’s trench coat.

“Cas, you –”

“I am fine, Dean. I just need – a moment.”

“Just what I wanted to hear.”

And then Dean is lying back down against the floor, closing his eyes and grinning so wide it’s got to hurt, his fingers bunched tight into Castiel’s trench coat, and Sam is already up on his knees, smiling at the way Dean’s sprawled out on the floor, seemingly oblivious to the sizeable gash on his own arm, and John watches in stunned silence until Dean finally opens his eyes long enough to focus on John and Sherlock.

“S’done. The dick in charge is dead.”

“I – seriously?”

“Yup. Still got leviathans running loose, but cut off the head, at least. Fuck yeah, we are _awesome.”_

“And so modest, too.”

But Sam’s grinning as he says it, helping Castiel climb to his feet while Dean pushes himself into a sitting position with a groan, the sound breaking into another low laugh, and John glances over to find Sherlock’s lips curved up at the edges, before he turns back to find both Sam and Castiel watching Dean with obvious fondness, as Dean simply sits on the floor and grins up at them all. It is, without doubt, the most expressive thing John has ever seen him do, and considering that this expressiveness seems to involve happiness – well. This is certainly a sight John had never expected to see.

“I – wow. Congratulations. Are the leviathans –”

“We’ve still got chompers running ’round the planet, but we took out their king. That’s enough of a reason to celebrate, in my books. Finally, something fucking good, for once.”

The last few words come out strained as Sam leans down to help pull him to his feet, and then all three of them are standing there, covered in blood and whatever that black stuff is, and still managing to look more content than John’s ever seen them before. He’s about to go for his medical kit when Castiel raises a hand to Dean’s forehead – and Dean’s expression suddenly sobers, losing any hint of humour, his hand wrapping around Castiel’s wrist before the angel’s fingers can make contact with his skin.

“Hey. You actually up to that? And don’t lie to me, Cas. If you’re not –”

“I’m fine, Dean.”

Castiel’s voice sounds exhausted but pleased, his own lips turning up slightly at the edges and his eyes still holding that visible fondness as he watches Dean, and Dean stares back at him for a moment longer before he nods, uncurling his fingers and dropping his hand back down to his side. When Castiel’s fingers make contact with both Dean and Sam, leaving them both clean and whole again, Dean reaches out to get a hand under Castiel’s elbow, steadying him as the angel seems to teeter in place for a moment, his eyes sliding closed as his hand comes down to rest on Dean’s shoulder.

“Alright, show-off. I dunno ’bout you, but I could use a bed.”

Castiel simply gives a weary looking nod, not resisting at all when Dean nudges him in the direction of the second bedroom, and Dean watches him for a moment longer before he turns to Sherlock and John, his skin free of blood and his expression still more content than John has ever seen it.

“Alright. The three of us need some sleep, but Cas and I came up with some ideas to break your deals, so – we’ll see what we can make happen tomorrow, alright?”

“Thank you, Dean.”

“S’all good. Part of the job. And sometimes, like today, the job actually pays.”

The words and the grin are more directed at Sam than anyone else, and when Sam grins back at Dean from where he’s begun to unroll a sleeping bag on the kitchen floor, John wonders, again, how these two ever got into this life in the first place. He doesn’t get long to ponder it, though, because Dean’s already turning to leave, and he’s half way into the bedroom before he turns back around, his grin sliding into more of a smirk as he leans against the doorframe and makes an obvious go of sweeping his eyes along John’s body.

“Oh, and also? I dunno what the deal is with you two, but I’m just gonna say now – either of ya get jizz on those clothes, and I’ll kill you both.”

_“Dean.”_

Sam sounds like the epitome of long-suffering, an audible amount of humour mixed in with the reproach, sounds like he’s used to this kind of thing but still can’t quite believe it, sounds like he’s not going to actually complain about a damn thing in the world right now, and Dean grins in his direction again before he punches a fist in the air and then closes the bedroom door behind him, plunging the kitchen into sudden silence, and leaving John doing his best to pretend that the heat on his face isn’t a blush. Beside him, Sherlock makes a noise that sounds rather aggravated, and then Sam is sprawling out on the floor in a giant mess of long limbs, groaning slightly as he does so.

“Alright, guys. Hate to be a downer, but –”

“It’s okay, Sam. We should probably get some rest, too.”

Sam smiles up at him for a second before his eyes close, stretching out on the mattress until his feet are practically hanging off the end, and John flicks off the overhead light as he and Sherlock leave the room, closing the bedroom door behind them and leaving them with only the light of the bedside lamp. For a moment, they both stand there in silence – and then Sherlock pulls back the covers to slide underneath them, leaving John plenty of space to crawl in beside him, even as everything seems to start sinking in all at once. It’s like – a tangible weight lifting from his shoulders, because now, at least, they can concentrate on getting Sherlock out of his deal, a realization that’s enough to make him almost shaky with relief; and when Sherlock presses a little closer, as though hearing everything John is thinking, John simply closes his eyes and lets himself relax into the sheets underneath him, something inside him feeling lighter than it has in longer than he cares to think about.


	7. Chapter 7

By the time the next afternoon rolls around, Sherlock is seated on a chair in the middle of the kitchen, wrapped back up in his own clothing, his face devoid of emotion and his eyes firmly fixed on Castiel, who’s rolling up his sleeve and tucking it in above the elbow. John, for his part, is leaning up against the wall beside Sam and Dean and trying to not freak out, because this – this is so not okay. And when they had established this plan – when Sherlock had explained that, in fact, he was the only one who still had a contract with Hell, and when Castiel had dropped this bombshell of needing to touch Sherlock’s soul in order to figure out what demon has a claim on it – well, John had spent the entire conversation grinding his teeth together, and now that the moment’s come, all he wants is to be able to shove Sherlock out that seat and trade him places.

“I am still not positive that this will be successful. This technique is normally used in the case of a contract between a human and an angel.”

“I want you to try.”

“And you do understand that this will be incredibly painful?”

“I understand.”

“Alright. Put that belt between your teeth.”

Sherlock complies without a word, and John wants to turn away, wants to cover his ears and eyes and pretend that none of this is happening, but he owes it to Sherlock to be here, and so he stays. There’s an almost blinding flash of light as Castiel’s hand makes contact with Sherlock’s body, and then Sherlock is tilting his head back with a scream, the sound not nearly muffled enough as his teeth sink into the belt, and John somehow makes his feet stay where they are, everything in him aching to get over there and get his arms around Sherlock. It can’t last for more than fifteen seconds, but it feels like several lifetimes, and then Castiel is pulling his arm free and leaving Sherlock slumped over in the chair, and John gets his hands on his shoulders as quickly as he can.

“Sherlock? Sherlock, can you –”

Sherlock twitches hard underneath John’s hands, and when he looks up, the belt sliding from between his teeth to fall to the floor, there are tracks of moisture down his cheeks, and his eyes are frantic. His gaze darts around wildly for a second, going from John to Castiel and then back again, and when John takes a chance and curls his fingers into Sherlock’s hair, Sherlock’s eyes finally seem to snap into place on him.

“Hey, it’s alright, you’re done. It’s alright.”

Sherlock stares wide-eyed at him for another long moment, before he closes his eyes on a shudder and sinks back into the chair. Beside them, Castiel is rolling down his sleeve again, a somewhat contrite look spreading out across his face.

“I apologize. There is no other way to do that.”

“It’s – fine.”

Sherlock sounds like he’s just about screamed himself hoarse, but then he’s raising his hands and putting them on John’s shoulders, letting John help him up to his feet again. His eyes are still closed, though, and he seems to take a steadying breath before he opens them, his gaze going to Castiel and his hand going to his own stomach.

“What did you find out?”

“The demon that holds your contract is named Athael. It is… one of the more powerful demons, actually, and well known for its cunning and deception. However, any demon can be held by a devils trap of my making, and all we must do is summon the demon right into the trap.”

“And then what?”

John doesn’t even want to ask that question, because he still hates the idea of carving into an innocent human body – but if it’s a matter of using force to save Sherlock from hell, and especially considering how John had been freed from his own deal – well. He knows far well that he’s not going to be able to even try to stop Sherlock from using pain to get the results he wants, and his stomach is turning over a bit at the thought.

“There is no need for panic, John. I can heal physical bodies and clear memories from people’s minds. If it comes to that, then the human host will never remember anything that happens to it.”

The words twist inside him with a wave of relief, because even if it’s not ideal, even if it’s still insane and all kinds of wrong, that’s still better than anything else they’ve found – but as soon as he’s done absorbing the meaning of what Castiel is saying, he can feel his face crease into a frown.

“Wait. You can read my mind?”

“I apologize. You were broadcasting rather loudly.”

“No, it’s – it’s fine.”

It’s insane, is what it really is, but Castiel is nodding in response, and then John watches as the angel carefully paints out a trap onto the floor, while Sam and Dean amass a collection of knives and holy water and salt, placing everything on top of the counter. By the time the room is ready, Sherlock seems to have regained some of the colour in his skin, and he pulls his coat a little tighter around him as he moves to stand in front of the devils trap, his eyes fixed straight ahead.

“I’m ready.”

John moves to stand beside Sherlock as Castiel steps to the side of the room, letting Dean do the actual summoning spell, and as soon as there’s a flare of fire in the bowl, the sound of something going up in flames, a body appears in the devils trap, and John can’t breathe, suddenly, as the demon lifts its head and smirks out an expression that John’s only recently seen in his very worst nightmares.

“My, oh, my, Sherlock. Guess you truly are on the side of the angels now.”

The sound Sherlock makes sounds like he’s been punched in the throat, and John can barely feel his body, can barely manage to keep his knees locked between them, the room tilting around him for a second, because – no. This is not possible. This is – not actually happening.

“Been riding this body for years. Making a name for myself up here on Earth.”

John watches as Sherlock moves a step closer to the trap, and when the demon’s smirk simply spreads a little wider, his eyes flashing with manic glee as he sweeps his gaze down the length of Sherlock, John feels a chill shoot across every inch of him, his mind finally catching up with the scene, because – James Moriarty, but with the extra powers that come from being a demon, and jesus christ, that’s a combination that should have never existed.

“You’re the demon I dealt with. You possessed Molly.”

“Good.”

“And the demon who approached John –”

“Very good. Even helped out your darling little pet with a certain feline.”

“And the leviathans?”

“My newest business partners. Figured I’d send them a little treat. Once you’d outlived your usefulness, they’d have killed you, and then you would have come straight to me.”

Moriarty is still smirking as his eyes turn to John, and it’s unreal, actually, how much he suddenly wants to get his fingers around this demon’s throat, and he knows his expression must be showing that, because Moriarty’s smirk morphs into a truly amused grin.

“Ah, Doctor Watson. Hell’s going to be so much more amusing with you there.”

“John’s contract has been broken.”

“Well, of course. But there’s still plenty of time to trap him in a new one.”

Sherlock is suddenly looking furious enough to tear into Moriarty with nothing but his fingernails, and John carefully pushes away Moriarty’s words to a distant corner of his mind, because, wow, the idea of Moriarty coming after him as a demon – that is not something he wants to think about right now.

“But we can deal with that later. I suppose you gentlemen didn’t just call me here to chat.”

“You know this clown?”

It’s Dean’s voice cutting in from the side – John had almost forgotten that he and Sam and Castiel were even in the room – and Sherlock doesn’t even look at him as he takes a step closer to the trap, his eyes fixed on Moriarty’s smirking face, and his fingers actually twitching at his sides, as though he’s just barely fighting the urge to reach out and start doing damage.

“Moriarty.”

“The psycho from the hospital roof?”

“Honestly, now, that’s just hurtful.”

Moriarty’s gaze swings over to Dean and Sam and Castiel, his lips curling up at the edges as he seems to assess all three of them, and even trapped like this – even though Moriarty is confined between the lines of paint on the floor, with his powers stripped down to nothing – he still has an air of danger about him, and it’s enough to make John’s skin prickle unpleasantly.

“Two humans and their pet angel – must be the Winchesters. How nice to finally meet you. Hell never stops gossiping about you three.”

“Yeah, well – if you know who I am, then you'll know that I was Alistair’s pupil. So believe me, buddy – let Sherlock go.”

Dean’s pushing himself away from the wall as he speaks, moving to stand in front of the trap, and John might not have any idea who Alistair is, might not know why Dean’s voice suddenly sounds like it’s been carved from granite, but there’s that darkness again, that John had seen that first day in their apartment kitchen, that had made his entire body tighten uncomfortably – and it’s now enough to send a streak of coldness straight down John’s back. Moriarty, though, only smirks a bit wider, as though he’s truly amused by this entire situation.

“Ah, of course. Alistair, and his loyal protégé. Tell me, Dean – what was it like, having your intestines threaded up through your throat every day?” 

“Not gonna work, jackass. And you can either die easy or you can die screaming. Sherlock’s contract’s getting broken either way, but the choice is yours.”

Dean’s voice doesn’t rise for a second – doesn’t have a hint of anger – but the low, controlled tones are somehow much more disconcerting than if he had been full on shouting. Moriarty, in return, simple quirks his lips and shrugs in silence, and Dean watches him for a second longer before he leans over the counter, fingers trailing across the assortments of weapons there – touching on the holy water and then the salt, something that looks almost contemplative flashing across his face as he presses his thumb up against the blade of a knife.

“Fine. John, Sherlock – you might wanna leave for this. Sam and I have some work to do.”

Dean is already picking up a knife from the stove as he speaks, Moriarty tracking the movement with his eyes, and John reaches out and tugs on Sherlock’s sleeve – because if Moriarty needs to be tortured into breaking Sherlock’s deal, then the last thing they need is for Sherlock to stand in the room as a constant reminder of what Moriarty’s fighting for.

“C’mon, Sherlock. Let’s get out of here.”

“One moment. There is – something is not right there.”

Sherlock’s staring at Moriarty with his lips pressed tightly together, Moriarty still wearing the same smirk he’d been wearing when he appeared, and Dean glances over at Sherlock, coating a knife in holy water as he does so, even as Sam picks up a container of salt from the stove.

“What’s wrong?”

“This is too easy. If Moriarty is in a trap, it’s because he chooses to be there.”

“Yeah, well – a demon can’t resist a summoning, no matter how powerful it is.”

“Still. There is something – something more, here.”

Castiel has pushed himself off the wall he was leaning against, his face creased into obvious concern, and Sam and Dean seemed to have paused to watch Sherlock, whose eyes haven’t once strayed from the staring match he seems to be in with Moriarty. After a long moment, something seems to click across Sherlock’s face, and he’s got his hand bunched into the pristine material of Moriarty’s suit before John’s even realized that he’s moved.

“Lose the clothes.”

“Oh? I’m flattered, Sherlock, really, I –”

“Now. Unless you’d like me to soak a knife in holy water and peel back your skin with it.”

Something ugly finally seems to flash across Moriarty’s expression, taking away the smirk that he’d been wearing since he appeared in the room, and he stares at Sherlock for a moment longer before he shrugs slightly, his fingers going to the button of his suit top. John wants to look away, because – he really has no desire to see this, and it’s disconcerting, somehow, that Moriarty still seems as dangerous as ever, even as he begins to peel away every layer of clothing, leaving him naked in the middle of the devil’s trap and looking for all the world like he isn’t at all perturbed by this development.

“Careful with those. Westwood, remember?”

Sherlock ignores him, doesn’t even look at him as he drops to his knees and dumps everything onto the kitchen floor, turning the pockets inside out as his fingers starting to search across every inch of fabric with clinical precision, the room falling into silence as he works his way through the mess of clothing – and then he’s scrambling for Moriarty’s cell phone, flipping it open with an expression that looks almost frantic – only to have the immediacy drain away when he seems to get a decent look at it.

“Not GPS equipped.”

“Very good.”

“And no tracking devices.”

“Gold star for effort, though.”

Moriarty’s stretching slightly as he speaks, his hands above his head and his neck cracking as he tilts it to the side, twisting his body as though he knows how just disconcerting it is that he’s not at all disconcerted by the fact that he’s been stripped naked, and then Dean’s taking a step forward, his hand falling down to Sherlock’s shoulder as he does so.

“Alright. If he’s planning anything tricky, we’ll deal. For now – how ’bout you let us get you out of your deal, alright?”

Dean’s eyes are on Moriarty as he speaks, his fingertip dancing along the edge of the knife in his hand, and Sherlock glares up at Moriarty for a moment before he lets out a huff of frustration and heads for the bedroom, John darting one last glance at Dean before he turns to follow, shutting the door behind him as he does so. He closes it just in time to watch Sherlock sprawl full-length down on the bed, glaring up at the ceiling as though it has personally offended him, and John lets out a sigh as he sits down beside Sherlock, still trying to wrap his mind around everything that’s happened.

“I don’t like it.”

“I know, Sherlock. But I don’t see what you could be missing.”

“Neither do I. And that’s what concerns me.”

Sherlock’s eyes are still fixed firmly on the ceiling, his fingers curled into a steeple above his chest, the tips pressed so tightly together John can see the way they’re already turning white, and John sighs again as he closes his eyes, because the next little while – however long it takes for Moriarty to break – is going to be incredibly unpleasant.

\- - -

In the end, they pass the time either lying on the bed or pacing the room, Sherlock still looking frustrated enough to start tearing out his own hair, and it can’t take more than two hours of listening to Moriarty scream before a wave of writing flashes across Sherlock’s skin – and considering Moriarty’s insane hatred for Sherlock, John doesn’t want to think too closely about what that says about Sam and Dean’s capabilities. As it is, he doesn’t take much time to ponder it, though, his legs suddenly wobbling and his chest suddenly feeling like it’s going to explode, because jesus christ, Sherlock is _free_ , and when Sherlock drags his gaze up from his own skin to stare at John, his eyes blown wide as though he doesn’t quite believe it, John is pretty sure his own expression is doing something quite similar.

“Sherlock – he – you’re –”

“I – yes. Apparently.”

They simply stare at each other for a moment, Sherlock looking as shocked as John has ever seen him, and John not even bothering to fight the way his vision is going a bit watery at the edges – and then Sherlock’s reaching out to grab hold of his hand, squeezing it tight for a second before he’s pushing past him into the kitchen, his expression pulling tense again as he leaves the room.

“He did it. The writing on my skin –”

“Then yeah, you’re good.”

Dean looks utterly exhausted, his clothing covered in blood and water and salt, and John wants to find something to say, wants to find some way to express the insane level of his gratitude, but the sight of Moriarty tied to a chair in the devil’s trap is more than a little distracting, because – christ, that’s a lot of blood. And it’s a damn good thing there’s nobody in that body but Moriarty.

“Anything ya wanna say to him before Castiel fries him?”

Castiel’s trench coat has blood on it, too, and his eyes are firmly fixed on Moriarty, who’s glaring up at Sherlock with a hatred that John is pretty sure is going to haunt him for a long time. There’s – parts of Moriarty are still intact, somewhat, but it’s clear that Sam and Dean and Castiel had taken full advantage of the fact that the human host was dead, and from the low wheezing noise that’s coming from between Moriarty’s bloodied lips, it’s taking everything Moriarty has to keep from screaming. Sherlock, for his part, simply stares at him in silence for moment before he shakes his head sharply, taking a step backwards to stand beside John, their shoulders bumping together as he never takes his eyes from Moriarty.

“No. Nothing.”

“Fine. Cas –”

“You still lose.”

Moriarty’s voice is garbled under the mess of blood that spits up as he speaks, but the words are clear, still discernible under the blood and pain, and, insanely, there’s what looks like a curve of a smirk sneaking across his lips, even as he wheezes for air and twitches against the ropes still holding him in place. Beside John, Sherlock goes perfectly still, barely seems to be breathing.

“Why.”

“Figure it – out.”

“No. Tell me.”

“You lose.”

“You’re not dead yet. There’s plenty of time to hurt you.”

“You – you lose.”

_“Tell me.”_

Sherlock is suddenly right at the edge of the devil’s trap, a hand curled underneath Moriarty’s chin and his face mere inches from Moriarty’s own, and Moriarty spits out a curse as Sherlock’s fingers dig in hard against his cheeks, pressing against skin that’s already been split open, and jesus. It’s suddenly taking everything John has to not step forward, and he’s distantly aware of Dean and Sam sharing a glance, aware that Castiel has moved to stand beside the devil’s trap.

“I can be just as creative as Sam and Dean. Tell me.”

Moriarty’s only response is to shake his head as best he can with Sherlock’s fingers curled around his chin, his eyes never once straying from Sherlock’s own, and John watches as Sherlock’s expression tightens into something so furious it’s pretty close to frightening.

“What happens when you die? Is it some kind of signal? Does something happen to John and I? Is that what this is?”

“You – I won’t tell – whatever you do to me –”

“Wait, no. Shut up. This – this isn’t right.”

And Sherlock’s stepping back, suddenly, letting go of Moriarty and simply staring down at him, his hand smearing blood against his own trousers as it falls to his side, and his face – it’s an expression that John knows all too well, that moment when everything clicks into place, as Sherlock suddenly spins around to face Dean.

“He’s stalling. He’s taunting me into forcing the details out of him. If he had concocted some great plan for a future event, it would be enough that I simply know that something’s coming.”

“So –”

“Kill him. Get us out of here. I don’t know how, but he’s waiting for something, something that –”

John only realizes he’s on the floor when he already gets there. Everything hurts, suddenly, the ringing in his ears too loud to hear over, but there’s – he’s underneath something, wood rubbing hard against his face and – explosion. Some kind of explosion, then, and – a wave of pain shoots through him, freezing the air in his lungs, but he somehow manages to get his eyes open, and the room seems to be filled with smoke, smothering him, blocking out the light – until it’s suddenly gone again, and John barely hear the words over how badly everything hurts.

“Heal me. Or Sherlock snaps his own neck.”

He barely gets his head up in time to see Castiel placing his fingers against the mangled mess of Moriarty’s forehead, waves of agony making everything blurry as he watches Moriarty’s body begin to sew itself back together – but Sherlock, where is – a new shock of pain shoots up from his middle, his cardigan warm and damp beneath him, but he somehow snaps his eyes over to Sherlock, who’s – smudging the edge of the devil’s trap with his foot, his eyes utterly black as he breaks the trap.

“Please god, no.”

His voice is barely there, and the world seems to be whiting out at the edges, something inside him fracturing as he watches Sherlock help Moriarty to get upright again – and then Moriarty’s backhanding him across the face, sending Sherlock crashing down to the floor at his feet, and John can’t get his body to work yet, can’t get up onto his knees as Moriarty’s foot makes contact with Sherlock’s ribs, sending him curling sideways against the floor.

“What happened?”

“The tracking implant – there was an equipment malfunction –”

“I was here for three hours!”

Moriarty’s voice has risen almost to a shriek, and the demon inside Sherlock doesn’t offer a response, simply curling in a little closer on itself, and John can barely breathe, can barely see around the static dancing along his vision as he gets up on to his knees, and – the entire front of the cabin is gone, blown away to nothing, and Sam and Dean are only just starting to push themselves up off the floor, Castiel crouched in between them and looking mad enough to bring down the rest of the building – but Sherlock. Sherlock is – no. This can’t happen.

“Castiel. You are going to return us – all of us – to London. If you refuse, Sherlock here is going to bite off his own tongue.”

Moriarty’s voice has gentled again, a disconcerting wave of calm seeming to creep back across his body as he turns away from Sherlock to begin putting back on his clothing, leaving Sherlock to lie on the floor, and John – needs to – find some way to fix this. Needs to move, needs to ignore the pain, his breath snapping away and his hand coming away red when he presses it against his stomach, and – stomach injury. Piece of wood, embedded into him. Jesus christ, no.

“If you want John Watson to remain alive, you must allow me to heal him.”

Castiel’s voice seems to be coming from far away, and John’s vision blurs for a second before he blinks hard, trying to bring everything into focus, trying to something to work with, and – Moriarty’s clothes are back on his body, and he’s nodding in Castiel’s direction even as Sherlock stands motionless beside him, his eyes pitched black and his clothes spotted with blood. On the other side of the room, Dean and Sam seem to have made it to their knees, and Castiel’s already crossing through the rubble to kneel in front of John, blocking off John’s view of Moriarty with the wide expanse of his trench coat, his voice low and soft as he presses a hand against John’s shoulder.

“It’s alright, John. I promise, everything will be alright.”

“Sherlock – I need to –”

“Leave Sherlock to me.”

There’s a wave of warmth, then, the pain sliding away as though it had never been there, and the only thing that stops John from climbing to his feet is the weight of Castiel’s heavy hand against his shoulder, holding him firmly down again the floor – and then Castiel’s other hand is his jacket, a quick movement that brings out – jesus christ, the knife, and it’s on the floor in between a mound of rubble even as Castiel stands up again, his eyes never once breaking free of John’s.

“Stop dawdling. Everyone in the middle of the room.”

Moriarty’s sounding tense again, and when Castiel turns away, crosses the room to help Sam and Dean back up to their feet, John has no idea what he’s supposed to do – no way to get to his own feet without the knife being glaringly obvious – no way to get to Moriarty without, christ, risking the chance of Sherlock snapping his own neck – and then, as Moriarty turns in John’s direction, his face morphing into a smirk as he stares down at him, Castiel moves.

It’s like a streak of pure light across the cabin, and then Moriarty and Sherlock are both on the floor, smashing into the rubble in front of John, Castiel landing practically on top of them both – and then Castiel’s rolling to the side, completely wrapping himself around Sherlock, the ball of bright light sweeping up around them both – and when Moriarty swings around to face them, John sees his chance. 

And he takes it.

There’s warm blood all over his fingers, suddenly, the knife hilt fitting in his hand as though it belongs there, and the blade firmly embedded into Moriarty’s back, right where it needs to be. There’s a shriek from the demon he’s pressed up against, Moriarty going rigid against him, and then there’s a flash of something along the entire length of Moriarty’s body, even as John twists the knife a little bit deeper and shoves Moriarty down onto the floor, gasping for air as he feels the body beneath him go completely limp – and then John’s rolling Moriarty over onto his side to rest his fingers against his throat, the lack of pulse making every muscle in his body go weak with relief all at once.

“Jesus christ.”

The words are barely out before there’s a whooshing sound, and a jet of black smoke comes screaming out from the ball of light around Castiel and Sherlock, shooting out through the remains of the building and twisting out of sight, disappearing into a line of trees. The silence lasts for about a second, and then John’s scrambling around the messy piles of wood on the floor, his skin flashing hot and cold as he gets his hands on Sherlock’s shoulders, staring down at him where he’s laying full length on top of the angel, Castiel’s arms wrapped tight around his chest.

“Sherlock – jesus, Sherlock, are you –”

“Healing energy. The demon could not hurt him while I was touching him.”

Castiel sounds just about as rough as John feels, but he’s already sliding Sherlock off his body, carefully laying him out on the floor before he gets himself into a sitting position behind him, his head drooping forward even as Dean ends up beside him, his hand bunching into Castiel’s coat and his face pressed up against the side of his shoulder.

“Holy shit, Cas. Haven’t seen that little trick before.”

Dean’s voice seems distant, though, and all John can see is Sherlock, all he can do is curl a hand around the curve of Sherlock’s cheek as Sherlock’s eyes slowly blink open to stare up at him – and while there may not be a physical scratch anywhere on his body, the visibly haunted look in his eyes is one that John is pretty sure is going to stay them both for a long time, and John has to swallow hard for a second before he can speak, his fingers carefully stroking up along the side of Sherlock’s cheek.

“Hey, shh, it’s okay. You’re alright. You’re safe.”

Sherlock simply stares up at him for another long moment, until a shudder steals across the entire length of his body, and then a hand comes up to press against the one John has curled around his cheek, Sherlock’s eyes still fixed on him as though he physically cannot look away. 

“That demon was going to torture you while wearing my body. It was – the entire time – it was planning how best to –”

“Sherlock –”

“And it was _laughing_ , John, laughing inside at how much it was going to break you, laughing at how –”

“Hey, shh. That’s never gonna happen, alright? So, just – focus on me, okay? We’re fine. We’re all fine. It’s alright.”

John somehow manages to get a small smile onto his face, despite how badly he’s starting to shake, adrenaline working its way across his body in a wave – and then Sherlock’s sitting up so suddenly it’s a wonder he doesn’t knock them both out, his gaze snapping over to where Moriarty is sprawled out motionless on the floor, and the bloody hilt of the knife still sticking out of his back.

“He –”

“Yeah. I, uh. Stabbed him.”

Sherlock’s gaze snaps back to him with something that looks like amazement, and John has to swallow, trying to get his breathing steady under the intensity of that look, even as he hears Dean speaking in the background, the noise still seeming to come from far away. 

“Cas? You maxed out, or –”

“I can get us as far as our motel.”

“Perfect. John – grab that knife, would ya?”

John drags his eyes away from Sherlock to pull the knife out of Moriarty’s back, a new wave of blood seeping out across his hands as he does as he does so, and when Castiel sticks out his arm for everyone to rest a hand against, the last thing John sees is the stunned expression on Moriarty’s face, his unseeing eyes fixed blankly on John as the room begins to blur.


	8. Chapter 8

When they hit solid ground again, all five of them slamming a little harder into the ground then John has gotten used to, they’re surrounded by the peeling walls of some generic motel room. Castiel begins to stumble as soon as they materialize in the room, and when Dean and Sam both reach out to catch him, stopping him from falling, John remembers something critical that hasn’t happened yet, something that’s gotten lost under the wave of adrenaline that’s still shaking its way across his body.

“Thank you. From both of us.”

He can hear the soul-deep gratitude in his voice, but Dean simply shrugs as best as he can while trying to hold Castiel upright, even as Sam smiles slightly and reaches out to take the knife from John, both of them looking like this is something they’ve done so many times before, it barely seems to phase them anymore.

“No worries, honestly. I’m just glad we could help.”

Sam’s already sliding the knife into the front of his jacket as he speaks, apparently with no concern for the blood he’s going to end up smearing everywhere, and Dean tightens his grip on Castiel for a moment as he continues to do his best to keep the angel upright, even as he quirks out a tight grin in their direction.

“Yeah, no worries – s’all part of the job. We’ll get you home as soon as we’ve all had some rest, alright? In the meantime, this place is paid for, and we’re a room over, and if ya need anything – shampoo, whatever – that’s my bag in the corner, so just – help yourselves.”

There seems to be nothing to say to that, no way that John could protest how insane it is that these three have saved John and Sherlock in ways that go far beyond the parameters of a job – so all he does is nod as they leave the room, closing the door behind them, and then John’s closing his eyes, his brain and body apparently not able to process everything all at once, and christ, how the hell could Sam and Dean and Castiel deal with something like this on a regular basis?

“How – and they call this their job? That’s just – absolutely insane.”

His voice is just about as weak as his body, his muscles not quite succeeding in their attempt to keep from shaking, and when he opens his eyes again, it’s to find Sherlock watching him, that expression of amazement still written across every inch of his face. He’s – quite the sight, really, dust and dirt making a mess of his coat and hair and face, though – thanks to Castiel’s skills – there’s at least no blood seeping out from across his body, and John ducks his head down as he puts a hand against his own stomach, where he had been bleeding out not ten minutes ago. 

“And – wow. Angel magic. That’s actually, wow, just –”

He stumbles on his words when Sherlock’s hand suddenly presses against his own, the fingers slowly inching out across the fabric as though searching out the place where John had been injured, and when John raises his eyes again, Sherlock is watching his face instead of their hands, something visibly vulnerable dancing around the edges of his expression. It feels like being punched in the chest, almost, and John twists his hand to curl their fingers together, holding on tight to Sherlock as they simply stand there and stare at each other, and, wow, if John’s heart kicks up the pace anymore, it’s quite possibly going to beat clean out of his chest.

“Christ, Sherlock. This is for real, right? We’re actually – we’re both free, right?”

Instead of a verbal answer, Sherlock simply stares at him for a moment longer before he nods, his fingers squeezing a little tighter around John’s, almost tight enough to hurt – and with that tiny bite of pain, it hits him, suddenly, that, yes, this is indeed actually real. That this is real, that they’ve both been saved from an eternity in Hell – and when Sherlock moves in a bit closer, never once taking his eyes from John’s, it’s like something deep inside John breaks open. He’s not quite sure how he ends up with his hands fisted in the front of Sherlock’s coat, how he ends up nudging Sherlock backwards, but he knows that Sherlock doesn’t resist when John gently maneuvers him back against the wall, his hands sliding down to dig in hard against John’s back as he gasps something into John’s mouth, the soft sound getting lost somewhere between them, swallowed up under the movement of their lips sliding together. It doesn’t last for long – christ, John still even has Moriarty’s blood on his hands, smearing into Sherlock’s coat where John’s fingers are curled into his shoulders – but by the time John pulls away, his breathing’s already coming ragged, and Sherlock’s lips are much redder than before, a fitting counterpoint to the splash of colour that’s crept across his cheekbones. 

“I – shit. Sorry, I –”

“Why did you stop?”

John just barely manages to hold in a groan, the roughness in Sherlock’s voice shooting straight through him, and the only thing that stops him from burying his face into Sherlock’s shoulder is the mess of blood there.

“I’m still covered in blood. You’ve been traumatised by a demon. I just killed someone. I hardly think –”

“Wash your hands, then.”

“That’s your biggest concern?”

“I wasn’t traumatised –”

“Yes, you damn well were.”

“– and unless Moriarty’s death is causing you unnecessary angst –”

“It’s – yeah. That’s really never gonna be a problem.”

“Then there’s a sink in the bathroom.”

“I – fuck, Sherlock.” 

“If you’re interested.”

_“Sherlock.”_

“Yes?”

Whatever John was going to say – whatever smart remark he was going to come up with – gets completely lost when he realizes that that last part hadn’t been Sherlock making a joke. That he hadn’t been trying to make light of this situation, that there’s not even a trace of humour on his face, and that his breaths are coming as quickly as John’s are, his eyes never once breaking away from where they’re fixed on John’s own – and when Sherlock raises a hand to rest it over where John’s heart seems to be trying to beat out through his cardigan, all John can do is swallow hard and try to remember how to breathe.

“John. Go wash your hands.”

John isn’t sure what kind of noise he makes, but it sounds, even to his own ears, rather pathetic, and he stares at Sherlock for a moment longer before he somehow convinces his legs to get him into the tiny bathroom, the sink staining red as he grabs the soap and goes to work, scrubbing across his skin and underneath his fingernails, his knees not quite steady and his breathing still coming too quickly. By the time he gets the blood off and gets back out to the bed, Sherlock’s already stripped himself down to nothing, and John barely has time to breathe through the sight before Sherlock’s making quick work of his clothing, stripping him naked and pulling him down on top of him on the bed. There’s something desperate about the touches, almost, and it makes something twist inside his stomach, makes his breathing come sharp in a way that has nothing to do with the slide of skin on skin, and John’s just about to breathe out some kind of reassurance when Sherlock’s pressing their lips together again, licking into his mouth in a frankly filthy way that sends a bolt of lust straight down to John’s cock, makes him bite out a groan into the kiss. 

“Sherlock – shit.”

Sherlock’s only response is the ragged sound of his breathing, and then his hands can’t seem to stay still, sliding across every bit of John they’re able to reach, his fingers and palms making a sweep of his body that leaves John doing his best to not dig his teeth into Sherlock’s shoulder. When Sherlock’s hands slide up to cradle his cheeks, holding him in place as Sherlock presses their lips together and pants out shaky little breaths against his mouth, John’s chest begins to ache, his blood pounding a little too hard in his temples at the way Sherlock can’t seem to get close enough.

“Sherlock – hey, it’s alright. I’m not going anywhere.”

Sherlock’s hands suddenly go still against him, his fingers resting just above the curve of his ass, almost as though he hadn’t expected to be called out – and then he’s pressing his face into John’s shoulder and mouthing damply at the skin there, even as one hand slides away from John’s body to fumble for something on the bed – and then, insanely, there’s something cool being pressed into one of his palms, and when John glances down to find his fingers curled around a container of lube, small and still sealed and suddenly feeling like a brand in the palm of his hand, something deep inside him seems to flare hot and needy and desperate, even as sudden panic makes him freeze against Sherlock’s body.

“Uh –”

“Found it in Dean’s bag.”

Sherlock’s voice is a rough murmur against his skin, his mouth still pressing damp against the curve of his shoulder – but John barely processes the words, his mind too busy trying to deal with the implications of the tiny container in his hand. Sherlock’s fingers slide, then, suddenly, pressing in against the curve of his ass and sliding along the skin there, and John can’t stop himself from squirming, a flare of unease mixing in with his arousal, because this isn’t – he’s not. This isn’t something he’s sure of yet – something he’d never even considered until Sherlock – but then, even as Sherlock mouths yet another damp kiss against his skin, he shifts underneath John and lets his legs fall open, leaving John to slide in between his thighs with almost indecent ease, and John is suddenly having serious difficulty getting enough oxygen.

“Jesus, Sherlock.”

Sherlock makes some barely audible noise of acknowledgment, his face still pressed in tight against his shoulder, and his breathing sending a burst of warm air across John’s skin – and even though he still hasn’t gotten it together enough to speak, he pulls back so that Sherlock has no choice but to look at him, his eyes sliding open to fix on him in the dim light of the crappy motel lighting. He’s – he already looks completely debauched, somehow, with his flushed skin and his hair all over the place, and his pupils so dilated there seems to be more black than blue – but it’s the vulnerability in his expression, more than anything, that’s making John’s pulse kick it up another notch across his body. 

“Are you –”

“I wouldn’t ask if I wasn’t sure.”

His voice sounds as rough as John feels, but his eyes are steady, and John stares at him for a moment longer before he exhales sharply and nods, leaning down to press a hard kiss against Sherlock’s mouth, his breath getting caught between Sherlock’s lips when Sherlock opens his mouth to let John in. They stay like that for a moment, their lips moving together as John tries to bite down the nerves in his body, and then he pulls back to pop open the cap of the container, lube spilling out slippery and wet against his shaking fingers, even as Sherlock watches him with an expression that already looks a little desperate. John swallows hard against the sight and then leans in to kiss him again, even as his hand slides down between them to wrap around the soft skin of Sherlock’s skin, a slippery slide that leaves Sherlock groaning against his mouth – and then John remembers something that draws a moan from his throat in a bad way, his head falling to rest against the curve of Sherlock’s shoulder.

“Condom. Fuck. Goddammit. We don’t have –”

“You’re clean.”

“I – shit, how the hell would you know that?”

“We both had full-spectrum STI and HIV tests after the case with the exploding corpse –”

“Oh, _hell_ , how are we talking about that right now?”

“– and unless you’ve been with someone since –”

“I – no, I haven’t, but –”

“Then you’re clean. Now, for the love of – could you please just – do something –”

Sherlock’s voice sounds incredibly tense, suddenly, the words cutting off into a noise of frustration as he arches up against John’s body, and John realizes that he’s been cradling Sherlock’s cock this entire time, the curl of his fingers nothing more than a light tease, and – yeah. Alright. So Sherlock has a point. A rather valid point. And when John slides his fingers down the length of him, and Sherlock goes limp and shaky underneath him again, all John can do is squeeze his eyes shut and blindly press his mouth into the curve of Sherlock’s shoulder, because – yeah, this is actually happening, then, and it’s enough to make John feel lightheaded.

“I – fuck. Alright. How do you – hands and knees, or –”

“Easier on my knees.”

Sherlock bites out the words into his mouth, his entire body twisting underneath him as John drags a thumb underneath the head of his cock, and then he pulls back to slide himself off Sherlock as he twists over onto his hands and knees – and while John might instantly regret losing sight of his face, jesus christ, is that a sight. Sherlock’s body seems to go on forever, all pale skin and sharp edges, and when John slides a hand down the middle of his back, the full-body shudder he gets in response leaves his cock pulsing hot and heavy between his legs.

“John.”

“I – yes?”

“I’ve done this to myself. I’ll let you know if you hurt me.”

The shake around the edges of Sherlock’s voice, mixed with the image that slams into his mind – John makes a noise that he didn’t even know he could make, something between a groan and a whine, and then he’s pressing up close behind Sherlock, his fingers sliding down to circle wet and soft against the entrance to Sherlock’s body. When Sherlock’s only response is to exhale sharply and twist a little bit closer, John takes a steadying breath and slides a finger inside, heat shooting out across him when Sherlock shudders and fists his hands into the blankets beneath him, and John is suddenly about three seconds away from hyperventilating, because this – is insane. Because he had never thought he’d get to see Sherlock like this at all – had certainly never thought that Sherlock would ever trust anyone enough to get into position – but here they are, somehow, with Sherlock twisting underneath him as John slides his finger a little deeper, and Sherlock panting out noises that sound like he’s barely getting enough oxygen into his lungs.

“Sherlock?”

Sherlock just nods sharply and closes his eyes, biting out a groan and pushing back into John’s hand, and John tampers down on his own arousal as he leans forward to start mouthing up the length of Sherlock’s spine, dragging his lips along whatever skin he can reach as he slides his finger in and out as slowly as he can, waiting for the muscles to gradually give way around him. He might have never done this to himself before, but he knows how this is supposed to work, knows full well that he won’t be rushing a damn thing here, and he waits until Sherlock shudders out another nod before he nudges in a second finger, feeling the muscles stretch around him as he pushes inside, and his cock jumping at the groan that slips from between Sherlock’s lips.

“Are you –”

“I’ll tell you if I need you to stop.”

Sherlock already sounds rather wrecked, the rasp in his voice going straight to John’s cock, and John very deliberately takes a steadying breath before he bites down carefully against Sherlock’s back, remembering the way he had reacted to nails there – and when Sherlock twists up almost violently into the contact, John manages a shaky smile against his skin as he slides his fingers in deeper, dragging his teeth along one of Sherlock’s shoulders as he does so, getting a curse for his efforts. He doesn’t let up the pressure, then, working his way across Sherlock’s back with his lips and teeth as he curls his fingers up inside him, because that’s two fingers, now, and he’s a doctor, he knows how this works – and when he finds the spot that he’s looking for, and Sherlock nearly jackknifes clean off the bed, it’s enough to draw a groan from John’s throat, even as Sherlock rasps out a noise that sounds like it’s been torn from somewhere deep inside him. 

“Sensitive, then?”

He does it again without giving Sherlock time to respond, heat burning up across his skin as he strokes his fingers slowly inside him, wanting to hear more of those noises – and when Sherlock bites out another moan and then twists up against John’s hand, John takes a steadying breath and begins to carefully trace a third finger around the entrance to his body, just barely dipping the tip inside.

“Alright?”

Sherlock nods, his head hanging down towards the bed and a sheen of sweat starting to sneak across his back, and John never takes his mouth away from Sherlock’s skin – shoulders, neck, back, spine – as he slowly works a third finger inside, the insane heat of Sherlock’s body making him shake nearly as bad as Sherlock is, and by the time he has all three fingers inside, Sherlock has gone still underneath him, his damp skin trembling underneath the press of John’s mouth.

“Sherlock?”

When there’s no kind of verbal response, John lifts his head to find that Sherlock’s squeezed his eyes tightly shut, the muscles of his entire body drawn tense, and his fingers turning white in the bed sheets – and, yeah, sure, Sherlock had said he would tell him if he needed to stop, but given the questionable nature of Sherlock’s self-preservation skills, John thinks he can be forgiven for having a little doubt. After a second of watching Sherlock just vibrate underneath the press of John’s fingers, John molds himself back up against Sherlock’s back and gets a hand around his body, sliding it up the length of Sherlock’s cock as curls his fingers inside, finding his prostate and gently grazing his fingers across it, and when Sherlock nearly knocks John out with how hard he bucks, John figures he’s on the right track. He does it again, and then again, keeping the pressure steady around Sherlock’s cock as he stretches out the muscles inside him, curling his fingers up against his prostate before sliding them away to give Sherlock a chance to breathe, repeating the motions until Sherlock is jolting up hard against him with every touch, and by the time the muscles around his fingers are starting to feel a little bit looser, Sherlock’s cock is hot and hard and damp in his hand, and he’s rasping out John’s name like it’s some kind of curse.

“John – please –”

“You… think you’re good?”

“Yes. Fuck. Now would you please just –”

Sherlock cuts off his own words as he reaches back and catches hold of John’s wrist, tugging in a way that clearly indicates that he wants John’s fingers out, and John mouths a shaky kiss against his spine as he starts to work his fingers out of his body, drawing a low groan from Sherlock’s throat as John’s fingers slowly slide free. Sherlock seems to just shake for a second, his breathing coming in a low rasp, before he’s muttering another curse and twisting over onto his back again, his fingers curling in tight and hot against the skin of John’s arms, and his legs sliding up to curl around John’s hips like they’ve always been meant to be there. 

“There. Like this.”

His eyes are blown wide in his face and his hair is a mess, his skin flushed bright and pink clear down to the curve of his throat, and John barely notices Sherlock prying the lube from his hand, too busy leaning in to press his mouth against that blush, until the slow slide of Sherlock’s lube-slicked palm around John has him stuttering out a groan. He’s barely managed to get air back in his lungs before Sherlock is dropping the bottle back to the bed and pushing up closer against John’s body, tightening his legs around his waist and dropping his fingers down to curl into the blankets beneath him, and John guides his cock against the entrance to Sherlock’s body, bracing his hands against the mattress and biting down on his own sudden nervousness, because, christ, this is so not the same as having sex with a woman, and even if he knows how this is supposed to work, the last thing he wants to do is screw something up and ruin this for Sherlock.

“If I hurt you –”

“Yes, yes, I know.”

“No, seriously, Sherlock. I mean it. If you –”

“Yes, fine, I’ll tell you if I want you to stop, now would you please just –”

Sherlock’s gritted out words get choked off into a groan as John nudges forward, the muscles of Sherlock’s body sliding open to let him just barely slip inside, and then Sherlock is gasping and squeezing his eyes shut as his head falls back against the pillow, leaving the curve of his neck in a position that John would love to be taking advantage of, if he wasn’t suddenly having trouble simply remembering how to breathe. Sherlock’s just – he’s all tight heat around him, his body shaking hard underneath John, and John rasps out a bite of air as he drags his mouth against the side of Sherlock’s neck, dragging his teeth gently across the skin as he keeps pushing forward, trying to listen through the haze of heat for whatever sounds Sherlock might be making. There’s nothing but the sound of his heavy breathing, broken once by something that sounds high pitched and a little desperate, but John’s going to trust him to know when it’s too much, keeps pushing forward, a slow slide that finally ends with John pressed deep inside him, and Sherlock’s nails digging hard and painful into the sweaty skin of his back.

“Shit.”

It’s strained even to his own ears, and he takes a long moment to just breathe against Sherlock’s neck, his heart nearly about to pound out of his chest, and – this is not going to last long, not with the way Sherlock is clenched tight and hot around him, not with the way Sherlock’s fingers keep pressing in harder and harder against his back, tiny shocks of pain that only go straight to John’s cock. After a long moment, he gets his head up from Sherlock’s neck to try to meet Sherlock’s eyes, watches as Sherlock pants for air and keeps his eyes squeezed shut, tension tightening the lines across his face, and when John leans in to brush their lips together, keeping the contact as gentle as he can under the circumstances, Sherlock makes that little desperate sounding noise again.

“Sherlock – _shit_ – are you –”

“Fine, just – John – move, dammit, don’t just –”

“Are you –”

“Yes, I’m sure, just –”

John cuts off the words with a slide of their lips, Sherlock’s body clenching nearly tight enough to hurt as John carefully begins to move, keeping the motions as slow as he can, his arms nearly shaking from the effort – until Sherlock bites out his name and pushes up against him, his legs tightening around him and his feet digging in hard against the bottom curve of John’s back, pulling him in closer as Sherlock bites down against his lip – and when John jolts against the contact, there’s a strained laugh against his mouth, even if the noise still sounds a little desperate.

“Harder.”

“ _Jesus_ , Sherlock –”

He cuts off his own words on a groan as his hips snap forward, his body seeming to think that Sherlock’s idea is a very good once, and then Sherlock’s breathing out that laugh again, a soft little strained sound that cuts out into a groan when John changes his angle a little bit, leaving Sherlock jumping underneath him like he’s been electrocuted.

“There – John, that’s – that’s good, just there, just –”

Sherlock Holmes, spread out beneath him and babbling, his eyes squeezing shut again as his head falls back, sweaty hair making a mess of the pillow underneath him, and John suddenly can’t keep it together any longer, knows that Sherlock doesn’t want him to keep it together – and when he finally lets go, just a bit, moves a little harder, it’s like some kind of dam breaking, like they’ve finally started something that there’s no chance of stopping. He tries to keep his cock aimed against that spot inside Sherlock, tries to keep Sherlock twisting hard and gasping for breath underneath him, and as soon as he realizes that Sherlock’s gotten a hand down in between them, wrapping it around his own cock with a groan, it’s a wave of pure heat across his entire system, and jesus, that’s already the rush of an orgasm that he can feel gathering across his body.

“I’m – christ, I can’t –”

Sherlock’s only response is to nod sharply as he keeps breathing hard right up against his mouth, their lips no longer close to anything that even remotely resembles a kiss, and John wants to make this last longer, wants to give Sherlock something more for his first time – but Sherlock’s already drawing up tight underneath him, his face burying into John’s neck as he starts to bite out tiny noises that sound like he’s falling apart, and John closes his eyes as Sherlock’s body begins to tighten up around him, stealing away whatever air he had left. When Sherlock suddenly goes perfectly motionless underneath him, barely even seems to be breathing, John presses himself as close as possible, squeezing his eyes a little tighter as Sherlock begins to shake against him, his cock spurting warm and wet between them as he makes an almost pained noise against the skin of John’s neck. It’s – the sight and sound and feel of it all pushes John right to the edge, leaves him hanging there as he somehow keeps it together enough to keep fucking Sherlock through it, and as soon as Sherlock goes limp underneath him, John grits his teeth together and makes his own hips go still, not wanting to push Sherlock to a place of being uncomfortable.

“Sherlock – are you – _fuck_ – do you need me to stop? Are you –”

“Don’t stop.”

Sherlock’s voice is low and hoarse and exhausted, sounds like the very epitome of fucked out, but even if that’s permission, right there, it’s still not enough to make John move, even if it takes everything John has to keep his hips still where they are.

“You – _christ_ – you sure?”

Sherlock’s only response is to bite down hard against his neck as suddenly squeezes his body tight around John, and John makes a noise he didn’t even know he was capable of as his hips snap forward again, a surge of pure need sweeping across his body when Sherlock breathes out a low moan at the sudden slide inside him. He’s got to be somewhere close to too much right now, got to be a least a little oversensitive, and John can feel the way his legs are trembling from holding their position around John’s waist, can feel the way his feet are digging in desperately against the curve of his back – but Sherlock’s still not saying no, is actually clutching at him to draw him even closer, his breathing coming harsh against John’s mouth and his hands going back to sliding across every inch of skin they can reach, as though he still can’t get close enough – and so John simply kisses him like he doesn’t need to breathe, kisses him as he tries to press them as close together as he can, his cock sliding into Sherlock’s body and making Sherlock grit out a gasp on every thrust. It doesn’t take long for John’s mind to start fracturing at the sight and sound and feeling of it all, and when Sherlock drags his mouth down to bite down hard against John’s shoulder, the spark of pain finally snaps John towards the edge and then over it, pleasure twisting through him and his body shaking helplessly as the world washes white around him, pulling him down under a wave of sensation. He only distantly realizes that he’s ended up with his face buried into Sherlock’s neck and his body collapsed on top of Sherlock, but the second he makes a weak attempt to pull away and give Sherlock room to breathe, Sherlock’s arms snap up to tighten around John with surprising strength, keeping him pinned against his body as Sherlock stutters out a breath right next to his ear.

“Stay. You’re not hurting me.”

He sounds – somewhat rattled, almost, in a way John is pretty sure he’s never heard before, and John’s suddenly got way too many emotions to deal with, too, making a mess inside him even as his chest tightens painfully at the sound of Sherlock’s voice – and all he can do is nod and shift just far enough to slip free of Sherlock’s body, Sherlock flinching slightly underneath him as John’s cock slides out. John bites down a sudden wave of guilt, tries to say something, tries to apologize, but Sherlock’s already shaking his head and pulling him in close again, and all John can do is let himself be pulled, pressing his face back into the sweaty curve of Sherlock’s neck. There’s silence for a few seconds, nothing but the sound of their ragged breathing as Sherlock’s heart beats far too quickly against John’s chest, and even though all John wants to do is close his eyes and just hold on as tight as he can, just wants to enjoy the press of Sherlock’s body and the pleasant limpness in his own limbs, well – if Sherlock’s anywhere close to how overwhelmed John is right now, then the last thing that John’s going to do is close his eyes and leave Sherlock alone to deal with everything.

“Sherlock?”

He can hear the hesitation in his own voice, and when Sherlock doesn’t respond, John gets it together enough to lift his head up, taking in Sherlock’s flushed face and sweaty hair, the way his mouth is hanging open slightly. He looks shocked, almost, as though he hadn’t been completely prepared for what had just happened, no matter what he had said about knowing what he was asking for, and John bites down a surge of unease, because if he’s screwed this up, if he’s done something wrong, if he’s somehow ruined things between them – but even as John watches him and tries to not panic, Sherlock’s eyes slide closed and the corners of his lips curve up ever so slightly at the edges, an expression of contentment seeming to wash across his entire face. 

“Interesting.”

_“Interesting?”_

“I do believe I’ve found something I enjoy as much as solving cases.”

John’s mouth – which had dropped open to protest the insanity of labelling what they’d just done as interesting – snaps shut so quickly it makes an audible click, and he’s pretty sure the warm mushy feeling inside him would best be suited for some teenage romance novel, because – that, really, says it all. Because there can’t be a better compliment than that, not from someone like Sherlock Holmes, and John only realizes how hard he’s suddenly blushing when Sherlock’s lips sneak up a little further at the edges, his fingers coming up to press against the side of John’s cheek.

“I trust your experience was also satisfactory?”

“Christ, Sherlock.”

He’s still blushing as he grits it out, biting down hard against the mess of emotions that suddenly want to spill out into some sappy declaration of love, and when Sherlock’s smirk simply turns up into an actual and honest grin, one of the most genuine expression of happiness that John has ever seen from him, John can’t help but return it, his own smile suddenly stretching wide enough to hurt as he huffs out a light laugh and lets his head drop back down to Sherlock’s chest. There is – there’ll be more they need to talk about, likely, but if Sherlock is content, then, well, that’s really all John needs to be concerned about right now, and he closes his eyes as he listens to the beat of Sherlock’s heart against his ear, not even attempting to wipe the smile away from his lips.

\- - -

Several hours later, and not long after Sherlock and John have managed to drag themselves out of bed and into the shower, making out like a couple of randy teenagers the entire time, Dean comes knocking on the door with Castiel in tow, and then proceeds to just stand there in the doorway and smirk at them both, as though everything about them is suddenly incredibly funny.

“What?”

There’s no real heat in his voice – after everything that’s happened, Dean could probably ask John for a lung and a kidney, and John would happily agree – but he can feel himself flushing a bit, and he just barely resists the urge to raise a hand up to his damp hair, very much aware of Sherlock standing close beside him. Castiel is looking as bland as ever, as though he has no idea why Dean seems far too amused by this entire situation, but John somehow has the horrible idea that they both know exactly what he and Sherlock had been up to.

“Next room over, remember?”

Dean’s still smirking, the expression making him look about ten years younger, but John can’t really pay attention to that, too distracted by the heat he can feel rising even further in his cheeks, because, yeah, he’s an adult, and sex is nothing to be embarrassed about – but he still hadn’t ever thought that being overhead having sex by an angel would make it onto his list of most dubious life accomplishments – and from the sudden smirk on Sherlock’s lips, this situation isn’t going to get any better.

“Indeed. I believe we owe you a bottle of lube.”

Sherlock sounds a little more smug about this then he probably should, but John can’t even be bothered to give him hell for it, because the dumbfounded expression on Dean’s face is suddenly bringing a reluctant grin to his own. The smirk’s slid away to be replaced by a slightly dropped jaw, and, amazingly, it’s Castiel who’s smiling a bit now, his hand coming up to rest gentle on one of Dean’s shoulders.

“It’s alright, Dean. I will acquire us a new bottle.”

Dean goes an interesting shade of red and actually sputters something before he glances up and down the hall, even as John hears a door open nearby, voices suddenly sounding much too close for this conversation. He can’t wipe away the grin, though, and then Dean’s stepping into the room and actually pointing a finger at Sherlock, face still flushed more than a little red, even as Castiel shuts the door behind them while still wearing that tiny smile. 

“Alright. I’ll let it go this time –”

“You did say for us to help ourselves.”

“Cause I’m guessing you two have finally got your shit together, and that’s – ya know. Good for you, and all that. But if you ever steal my lube again, I will find some nasty way to get even, I swear.”

“And will we be seeing you again?”

John doesn’t mean to put a damper on the general contentment in the room, but with their deals broken, and the leader of the leviathans killed, he’s not sure why Sam and Dean and Castiel would ever return to Baker Street again. It comes to him, suddenly, that for all that these three have saved him and Sherlock, saved them in so many different ways, they’re still more or less complete strangers. Hell, he doesn’t even know Sam and Dean’s last name, or why Castiel seems so sick, or how an angel even ended up riding shotgun with a couple of monster-hunting humans.

“Cas is gonna take you wherever you wanna go. Personally, I’d suggest Mycroft, as much as he seems like a pompous asshole, ’cause Cas and Sam and I can’t hang around England and stamp out all the leviathans for you.”

“Do you – with the leader dead, though. Do you think Sherlock and I are –”

“While you might not be as high on the to-do list, I wouldn’t say you’re in the clear. And now that you know that things really do go bump in the night, well –the leviathans are a particularly nasty version of that, and whatever you do with your lives for the next while, you’d better be damn well ready to switch from civilian to hunter whenever you need to.”

Dean’s frowning as he speaks, and, yeah, that does sound a little bit daunting – but considering what their lives had been before all of this, the idea of switching from civilian to soldier isn’t exactly anything new, even if there’s an added supernatural component now. And while John doesn’t much like the idea of glancing over his shoulder for nasty mouths full of giant teeth, he’s pretty sure that he and Sherlock can handle whatever comes in their direction, now, as long as they have Mycroft’s resources and Sherlock’s brain and Sam and Dean’s knowledge and lore.

“Yeah, well – our lives weren’t exactly safe before all of this. We solve crimes for a living, and spend a good chunk of our time chasing down criminals and dangerous serial killers.”

“Hadn’t pegged you two as cops.”

“I – no, we’re not. Sherlock’s a consulting detective – basically means the police come to him when they’re stuck. I fill the medical role, I guess. Checking out the corpses, things like that.”

“And that’s what you two do? Solve crimes just for the hell of it?”

“Still somehow seems saner than chasing down demons.”

John can’t stop the grin that curves across his lips, can’t stop the hint of warmth that sneaks into his voice – because without these three and their demon-hunting, he and Sherlock wouldn’t even be here, and, yeah, that’s really not something he wants to think about for too long – and when Dean gives him a small smile in return, John suddenly wants for this not to be the moment when they all part ways for good. Wants to find out the story behind these three, want to ask them how this became their lives, wants to get to know them all better – but then Dean’s clapping a hand against Castiel’s shoulder and moving back a step, his eyes sliding from John to fix on Sherlock.

“Your brother has my number. I can’t promise we’ll always be able to jump the ocean for ya, but it’s worth a try.”

“Thank you.”

“No worries. And Sam’s already checking out something we got wind of a few towns over, but he said to say bye for him, so – yeah. Good luck, and all that. You two take care of each other, alright?”

Dean’s voice seems to soften ever so slightly, suddenly, as he glances between the two of them – and then Castiel has his hand on John’s shoulder, and the last thing John sees before the room disappears is the sight of Dean raising a hand in what looks like an awkward little wave. The room they materialize in seems to be some kind of bunker, the walls and floors both made out of concrete, and when Castiel starts to stumble as soon as they’re in the room, John reaches out to steady him, getting his hands under his elbows and doing the best he can to keep him upright.

“You okay?”

“Yes. I – yes, I’m alright. This is the address Mycroft provided. I assume he is here somewhere.”

“Probably planning some grand entrance.”

But Sherlock’s voice is lacking the vitriol it normally would have, and he’s watching Castiel, too, his expression soft and almost a little fond as John helps the angel to get himself steady again. As soon as Castiel straightens up and seems to set his shoulders against whatever invisible weight he seems to be carrying, John takes his hands back and steps away again, his shoulder brushing up against Sherlock’s as they stand there and stare at Castiel, who stares right back at them in that ridiculously intense way of his that John is starting to find rather endearing.

“So. Guess this is goodbye for now, then.”

“I suppose so. Dean says I’m not particularly skilled in the art of human farewells.”

He actually looks a little concerned about it, too, his face creased in a way that seems to suggest perplexity, and John has to fight down an unexpected wave of affection, suddenly trying to convince himself that it’s probably not proper etiquette to hug an angel, even if said angel has saved your life several times over.

“Yeah, well – I’m pretty sure saving our lives kinda trumps an awkward goodbye.”

“I had some help with that, though. Dean thinks that both of you would make excellent hunters.”

“Really?”

Castiel simply nods, still staring at him as though he can see right through him, and John doesn’t bother to fight the twitch of his lips, the slight flush that sneaks across his cheeks. Before he can find a response, though, Castiel is taking a step backwards from them, his eyes flicking across them both as he moves away.

“If you ever have need of us in the future, I – while I am not sure how much longer I will be able to fly, I will do my best to get here, even if that involves convincing Dean to get on a plane.” 

There’s barely any emotion in the words – at least that John can hear – but there’s obviously nothing good about _how much longer I will be able to fly_ , nothing good about the implications of that sentence – and he’s suddenly about to lose the fight to refrain from hugging this angel standing in front of them, his chest tightening and his throat clogging up around whatever response he might have had – and even though Sherlock thankfully still seems able to speak, his voice doesn’t sound much steadier than John’s probably would have been.

“I – while I do not understand your condition – for lack of a more precise word – if there is anything that John or I could do –”

“It is a long story. Perhaps, if we meet again, I might tell you.”

“I would like that.”

Castiel’s only response is to nod once again, silently, and John suddenly finds his voice again, wanting to get the words out before Castiel disappears, even if they come out disjointed and a little shaky around the edges.

“Thank you, Cas. Seriously – just, thank you. To all three of you. For everything.”

“I am simply glad we could help. I have seen Hell. Nobody deserves that fate.”

And with that parting comment – a sentence that feels rather like getting punched in the chest – Castiel is gone, nothing but a flutter of feathers to accompany his departure. For a long moment, all John can do is stare at the spot where Castiel had disappeared from, and he’s just turned to face Sherlock when there’s the sound of a door opening, and they both glance across the room to watch Mycroft sweep into the room, his umbrella tapping along beside him and his face pinched up in a way that John is pretty sure does not bode well.

“Ah, brother dear. So glad you could finally make it.”

“Mycroft. Managed to save the country yet?”

“All in good time. I suppose you two want to be part of this, now?”

“Depends on what, exactly, you’re doing here. Either way, Dean suggested talking to you before John and I decide whether or not we can go home, and I agreed, so – here we are.”

“Interesting.”

“What?”

“Oh, nothing terribly urgent.”

“Mycroft, honestly, if you actually want to start fighting already –”

“Just that I have never once, in our entire lives, heard you refer to anywhere as ‘home’.” 

Mycroft’s haughty composure doesn’t slip for a second, the words coming out as snooty as ever, but the implications hang in the air between the three of them until Mycroft turns away, waving a beckoning hand over his shoulder as he walks back into the other room. Beside John, Sherlock has gone a rather endearing shade of pink, and he seems to be doing his best to glare holes into his brother, but John, for his part, is simply giving up on trying to fight a smile, something inside him swooping low and hot with pleasure as he reaches down to squeeze Sherlock’s fingers between his own, a quick glance confirming that Mycroft is still facing safely in the other direction.

“C’mon, Sherlock. We’ll get home, eventually. For now, how about we go see what crazy scheme your brother’s concocted to save the world, alright?”

He doesn’t bother to even attempt to keep the happiness out of his voice, because even though they’re stuck in some dark little bunker, they’ve both been freed from the threat of Hell, and John’s apparently not the only one who thinks of Baker Street as the only home he’s ever known – and put all that together, and John is pretty sure that's got every damn reason to be over the moon right now. The contentment in his voice seems to get through to Sherlock, too, who drags his gaze away from Mycroft and back to John’s face, before he drops his eyes down to where their hands are joined together – and when Sherlock smiles ever so slightly and curls their fingers even closer together, John feels the touch like Sherlock’s actually reached into his chest and squeezed, and jesus, this is actually insane. That somehow, miracle of all miracles, they’ve made it this far, that they’ve cheated death in more ways than John cares to count – and that now, amazingly, they have the chance to spend the rest of their lives discovering little moments like this, moments when everything feels right and wonderful and safe, possibly for the first time in his entire life.


End file.
